Too Deep for the Healing
by waterside
Summary: This story begins where Snape's story ends in canon: In the Shrieking Shack. Severus Snape survives the war - but which Snape? Who is he in the new circumstances? Some things will never be the same again. Other things, however, do not change so easily.
1. Wounded

_Here is my version of the story of a Severus Snape who survives the war... The cauldron is boiling, something is brewing, the ingredients are prepared. One ingredient that is not based on the canon story is a woman who can love him – an OC (you have been warned!), since I can see no surviving canon characters with this potential. But his experiences make our hero ill-prepared for starting a new life… I am more interested in what happens_ in_ him than in most other aspects of the plot._

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 1**

_Wounded_

The green of the eyes that he was, with the last of his strength, clinging to gradually melted into darkness, and yet Severus Snape was not dead. Nor was he truly alive perhaps – it was only a matter of time, and the lungs, the heart, the brain would stop functioning; but for the moment he was caught – trapped - in a helpless, unconscious, dying body. That was what a casual observer would have seen; or perhaps a casual observer would have believed him already dead. In reality, his consciousness, closed down to the things belonging to life and not yet open to the things beyond life, could be touched and addressed by something that was – like him - _in __between_.

"Severus…"

The slim, girlish, ethereal figure seemed to be separated from him as by a veil. He wanted to answer, he wanted to get up to greet her, but he could not move, and his voice failed him.

"You don't need your voice to talk to me," she said.

"Lily," he said, or rather thought, certain that she both heard and understood him.

"It's easier like this," she answered kindly.

"I've come after you – at last."

She was shaking her head.

"No, Severus, _I_ have come to you. You're still alive. To be quite frank, I came to see my son – he had the power to call us to his side - and I can linger only a little longer. But that's not important."

Not important? Lily coming back to him – what could be more important? It was a miracle that she still wanted to see him though.

"Your son …" he began, but the memory was too painful to elaborate even in thought. "I would understand it if you hated me."

"Harry made his own choice," said Lily. "I'm not here to scold you for … anything. I'm here to give you advice."

"May I stay with you?"

If he had had to pronounce this question, Lily would never have heard it; but he could not help his thoughts. It was a stupid question.

She shook her head once more.

"I must go back where I belong," she said. "You belong to the living."

Snape disagreed.

"I have belonged to the dead for a long time. The dead alone know what I am. Look at me. I cannot live."

"You can still try," she coaxed. "And I suggest you try… You have something to do."

"Another … job?"

He wondered if Lily had brought him orders from Dumbledore. She smiled.

"There's nothing you can do for Harry any more. There's something you can do for yourself."

For himself? He was not sure it was a worthy goal.

"Reconciliation," Lily said. "You must find peace while you are alive. You owe this to yourself. Afterwards … it will be much more difficult."

Peace? There had been no peace for him for years. And now…

"Everyone thinks I'm a traitor," he said. "They hate me."

"Do you really want to die like this?"

"I doubt anyone would want to make peace with me."

"Then make peace with yourself."

"I'm already dying… I don't think I have a choice."

"Ask for help," she said. "I can't help you much, but the living may. Just ask."

"I can't see anyone ... but you."

"Help will always be given to those who ask for it. Do as you did just now."

"What did I do?"

"_Let me go to the boy_ … How many times did you say it a little while ago? Don't tell me you were talking to Voldemort only. And what happened?"

"The boy … came to me."

"You know what you have to do… Try it… You're not ready to go yet."

"Lily…"

She vanished, leaving him in darkness again, neither here, nor there; and he wanted to cry out in disappointment, but it was impossible. All he managed was a sigh that carried a silent request for help he did not know to whom.

Later, he had very few memories of the following hours (days? centuries?). He remembered seeing another pair of eyes, piercing blue this time, causing him to think Lily had been mistaken - until the excruciating pain in his oesophagus made him unable to think of anything at all. And he remembered hearing voices, though very little of the actual words that had been said.

"I wanted to take a last look at the man who had had the nerve to kill my brother like that."

The voice sounded old and vaguely familiar - at least he knew he had never liked it.

"What a lot of blood to lose... It must have been the snake..."

"I pushed a bezoar down his throat, just in case, after sending for you. I always have a couple of goat things with me; they're rather useful..."

Someone moved him, and his consciousness, awakening to more pain, sank back into the darkness…

* * *

><p>"You will alert me if there's any change."<p>

"I will. Don't worry. I'll manage."

Of course she would manage. She was a fully qualified healer. The best way she could help was to take on the night shift, enabling her more experienced colleague to rest. The patients would need her strength in the morning again. It had been a difficult day, and the coming days were going to be difficult, too.

As she was left alone – alone? – with dozens of patients to look after! - she checked on each ward. Everything was calm, strangely calm after a busy day. Even those who were unable to sleep had quietened down. But the quietest of all was the patient who had been brought in last and placed into a separate ward without company. She spent a few minutes standing by his side, observing him. Would he ever open his eyes again? She took his pulse and she checked his surroundings. Everything that at the moment could help his survival was in place. All he had to do now was – to survive.

_Snape found himself in a barren, cold and uninviting wasteland. __The light was dim but enough for him to see, and the __atmosphere __was gloomy. He glanced around. The desolate place had an air of menace – he was aware of some unseen, unheard but undoubtedly existing danger, and he realized that he was without shelter or weapon, exposed to whatever evil presence was lurking behind his back. Instinct told him to flee or to hide. He saw nothing that could be a good hiding place; therefore fleeing was the only option. Yet, he was reluctant to move, reluctant to stand up and start walking across what seemed to be emptiness itself._

_It was then that he __noticed the doe. She was lying on dry, cracked soil, not far from him. She looked ill. He could not ignore her – wearily, he got up and went to the animal. She was a real doe: neither silver nor white and not a light-being at all. Snape held out his hand and touched her. It was possible. Yet, as he touched her, all doubts left him. She was _his_ doe. He could recognize her, the strange changes notwithstanding. _

_The doe did not mind the touch at all. On the contrary, Snape had the feeling that through that touch, she was communicating with him. For once, he was sure that she could not help him because it was the doe that required _his_ help. Most of all, the doe needed water. But where could he find it? He stared into the distance and soon he discovered a little river winding lazily in its bed and breaking the emptiness of the wasteland._

"_There's water," he murmured, "I'll take you there."_

_The doe was persuadable, and with Snape's help, she stood on four trembling legs and let him lead her towards the water. But the __stream was murky, and the doe __halted on its bank with something like disgust. Snape looked round again. There was no other sign of life anywhere; nothing that could help the doe._

_The need to protect another living being gave him courage: He was not afraid for himself, but he could not let the thirsty animal perish. He started walking along the thin line of the stream, which soon became wider, and the doe was following him slowly, with __unsteady steps._

_Snape bent over the stream, hoping against hope that the water had become cleaner, himself feeling the thirst of the doe already, but as he touched the surface of the stream, his eyes widened. Under the water, broken by the lazy waves of the stream, a familiar image appeared. It was Hogwarts castle, not as he had known it for most of his life, but the besieged, already half-destroyed Hogwarts as he had seen it only once. _

_He found himself in the battle again. Death Eaters were firing curses at the castle, as giants, real, enraged giants, were putting their rake-like hands and enormous heads through the windows, looking for human prey…_

_And there they were all – the stone walls turned into living walls of students, and the curses kept flying at them. He had to find Potter… All of a sudden, a sharp, female voice shouted above the heads of the children. _

"_Coward!" _

_He rushed forward as fast as he could, but the first row of students had already collapsed..._

_Snape was panting. The image had vanished, and he was left once again on the bank of the dirty river, unable to drink, unable to help the doe, unable to forget what he had just seen. _

"I may be wrong, of course, but I'm afraid these potions aren't very effective."

The older woman's expression made it clear that she fully shared the younger one's opinion.

"He's received the best antivenom available at the moment. These potions are keeping him alive. We can't do more unless we obtain a potion matching specifically the characteristics of the venom in question. It's a miracle he isn't dead yet."

Though the patient was not dead, he was in a state similar to the one induced by the Draught of Living Death. Even the combined effects of the timely bezoar and the other medicines were enough only to keep up the vegetative functions of the organs – but no one could tell how long.

"Perhaps," she said tentatively, "someone could _go after him_."

The older healer responded with an astonished look.

"That would require a trained dream-guide. _My _expertise is related to herbs, potions, ointments and general wand magic. You must know more than anyone what's happened to the staff of St. Mungo's since last summer, but if you think you can contact a dream guide who would get here before it is too late, by all means do it. On my part, I hope the snake venom is still analysable – that's our best chance to neutralize its magic. Without that, simply waking him up would be of no avail. But I do wish he could wake up. The longer he stays in this deep sleep, the more difficult it will be to undo the damage, even with a more effective medicine."

The elderly woman shook her head. The younger one hesitated.

"I … did a course…" she said shyly. "I've never tried it in a real situation, but I'm familiar with the theory and I've had some … well, classroom practice."

"That's not the same. There are risks. Entering his mind is one thing, but guiding him out of the magical dreams in which he is entangled would be extremely difficult. You may do more harm than good."

"I was taught by the late Professor Traum. I was a good student."

"You're tired. You've been up all night. Go to bed."

"I will. Afterwards. What did I take that course for if I don't dare to try my knowledge in real life?"

The two witches were watching each other gravely. Healers had to attempt everything in their power to save a patient. But it sometimes involved risks. Failure was possible.

"I'm worried about you, Irene" said the older one. "You have no idea how it feels when something goes wrong because of you. Besides, we don't have his consent."

Irene was silent for a while.

"It's an emergency situation," she said in the end. "It'd be horrible not to do what could be done."

"Do as you will," the older one snorted. "I'll leave you alone with him. But I must warn you, if the experiment goes wrong, I may not be able to help."

Irene started the necessary preparations with great care. She wasn't quite sure why she had insisted on the attempt - it was true that the risks were high. She wanted to help, of course. Healing was her true profession, which she took as seriously as anyone. But she was also eager to see how much she was able to do. There were not many dream guides in the world, and her professor had considered her talented. But he had died too early… before having an opportunity to watch over his student's first real steps in his area of expertise.

The patient was another professor, and Irene thought perhaps _he_ would understand her thirst for knowledge. After all, she was not being irresponsible. There was a fair chance that she might succeed; and no one else was available who could be employed as a dream guide with any more success than her. She was certain that every new day the patient spent in the venom-induced sleep made the prognosis significantly worse. Conscious or not, his life was in peril without a more effective medicine, but it mattered a great deal in what state he would be found when (and if) that potion was ready.

She sat down by the patient's bed. With one hand, she directed her wand at his forehead. With the other hand, she carefully took the patient's hand, and murmured a long, long spell.

_Snape was standing in the middle of a circle of Death Eaters, all wearing their uniforms and their hoods. A faceless crowd; and he was just one of them, faceless, too; his robes and hood identical to theirs. Being in the middle did not bode well. The air was ice-cold around him, yet no one seemed to be feeling cold but him. There was a hiss, a jet of light, and his Death Eater robes caught fire. Despite the searing pain, the icy feeling persisted as well. He struggled to tear off the burning robes, but his limbs were paralysed. The Death Eaters were not disturbed by the fire; and the black of their uniforms __hid everything else from his sight._

_Unexpectedly, someone seized him by the hand and began pulling him. He tried to resist, but he could not fight the heat, the cold and the mysterious force at the same time, and soon enough, he gave in to the pressure. The Death Eaters were left behind, and so were his burning, black robes. He was clad in shining, conspicuous white, but he still thought he was on fire inside. _

_He wanted to see who had saved him, but they were wandering through a thick, dark forest, and he could discern only the vague shape of a human being, who was still holding his hand, guiding him through thickets and past thorny bushes. Slowly, the path began leading uphill, and Snape instinctively knew that freedom and safety were waiting for them somewhere up there… But as they emerged from the benevolent shade of the trees, he noticed the serpentine valley encircling the hill, deep and narrow. _

"_Don't look down," a voice warned him; but he was already staring into the depth below, and there he glimpsed a building that he had known for years, an elegant mansion at the foot of the hill, where they were waiting for him…_

"_Let me go …" he groaned. "I … must find out what's happening … It is … my job."_

_The power that had rescued him gave way to his will now. Snape was sliding downhill, but his companion was following him, a hand firmly locked around his. He could have observed the stranger at last, but he was thinking of his horrible duty only, and did not take his gaze off his grim destination... _

_Torture. Death. A high-pitched laughter. Strangers. Order members. Students. How much more could __he take? He could feel his own willpower cracking inside, and a cry was ready to burst out of him, a cry that would not help anyone but would reveal everything... _

_The Dark Lord's red, snake__like eyes were focusing on his. Once again, he had to concentrate and remain calm. Too much effort would betray him just as surely as too little effort would. He had to find the balance; he had to let the Dark Lord into his mind, he had to allow the Dark Lord to take a tour among his miserable memories at leisure - and he had to close down what was important … He had done it a thousand times. But this time it did not work. He knew there was something – something he had left open, a window through which the Dark Lord might catch sight of the truth. _

_The intent gaze did not let go, and there was no escape from the Dark Lord's headquarters, much less from his presence, everyone knew that. He had to close down his mind before it was too late…_

_It _was_ late. The snaky visage froze into the icy expression that immediately preceded the Dark Lord's fury, the kind of fury that could make strong and proud wizards tremble like children. _

"_Do you mind their deaths?" hissed the Dark Lord. "Hogwarts students, underage wizards, and there are so many of them… Would you have preferred to keep them alive rather than sacrifice them for my sake? I am disappointed, Severus, very disappointed…"_

_The words turned into pure hissing, and Snape saw Nagini wriggle towards him and start a hungry dance around him. _

"_Watch, Severus, watch," the hissing continued, "watch what you have done…"_

_Hoisted upside down, there was a helpless figure floating below the ceiling, turning around slowly. Snape did his best to put on an impassive face, as she stared at him, pleading._

"_Severus, please…"_

_And the words echoed in his head in the voice of Albus Dumbledore, then in the voice of Narcissa Malfoy, and then Dumbledore again._

"_Severus, please…"_

_Why did they all have to ask him, why not someone else, anyone else? _

_He was shaking and sweating as the Dark Lord, laughing, directed his wand at the spinning figure, and suddenly it was Potter, Harry Potter, the boy he had failed to protect._

_Potter__ was not pleading; he merely looked at Snape with his green Lily-eyes, and the Dark Lord laughed again._

"_Enjoying the scene, Severus? Do you want to see more? Who else do you want to see spinning there? More of your students, perhaps? More of your dear colleagues? They are all here… Or can we think of someone even dearer to you, Severus?"_

_He could only moan as the Dark Lord raised his wand once more, as the snake's hissing grew unbearably loud, as Harry Potter started spinning with a sickening speed in front of his eyes, close up, turning back into Charity Burbage, who kept spinning and was about to turn into someone else (and Snape somehow knew in advance and without doubt who the next victim would be), when a green light flashed, someone screamed, the stranger's hand, which, unknown to the Dark Lord, had miraculously been holding Snape's hand all the time, was torn off, and Snape fell._


	2. The Dream Guide

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 2**

_The Dream Guide_

The healer was staring at the sleeping patient as though she had been Petrified. Even her wand had fallen out of her hand as she had screamed. Who was her patient? Professor Snape was known by everyone who had had any sort of connections with Hogwarts in the past decade and a half, but who was the man behind the name, behind the rumours and behind the dark, inscrutable veneer? What nightmares, what fears, what memories did he have? As a rule, she did not give much thought to the background of a patient. They had to be treated, and that was all. But then again, she had never been a dream guide before.

As a dream guide, she should have been prepared for shocking discoveries; and yet, she had failed to navigate her patient back to a conscious state because of her own reaction to his dream. Still, she could not blame herself this time. Shocking discoveries concerning _the patient_ were one thing. What she had seen was different. But she left the ward with a trembling stomach, in vain trying to fight off the shame and the guilt when she had to admit her failure.

There was no reprimand, only a look of disappointment in the other healer's eyes, but it hurt Irene all the same. She was sent to bed – kindly – and yet, it made her feel like a child who had done mischief out of ignorance and disobedience. Though she was exhausted, she found it difficult to fall asleep because she was thinking of the patient who could not wake up and of the terrible image she had seen in his dream. Before she dozed off finally, she confessed to herself that she had a selfish reason to wish the patient could wake up. She had questions that could only be answered by him.

_The scene was repeated again and again, and Snape wondered how long he was able to bear it. _

"_Severus, please…"_

_He hated to hear it. But the feeble old man kept repeating it, gazing at him with a pleading look, and every time Snape wanted to protest violently. Yet, every time, he had to obey the old man's wish (paradoxically, it was the man's _dying_ wish), and he raised his wand once more - hating the old man, even more himself, but most of all what he had to do - and uttered those hideous words, then watched the old man die. There was a howl of pain somewhere inside him, which no one else could hear. He knew he had to run away, to flee, but he seemed to __be doomed to stay on the spot, where the horrible scene was starting anew. Could it be that he was locked up in a single moment of time forever?_

Evening came, and Irene's work was still needed. She was a volunteer, helping out in the aftermath of the battle because that was the only way she was able to fight; and although she did not hope for any material advantage resulting from the days she spent healing the heroes and the victims of the war, it would have been a real blow to her if she had been dismissed at this point, right after the fiasco.

This time, the pains and the fevers of the wounded kept her busy for most of the night, and the professor (Death Eater?) in the separate ward could not demand any more of her attention than his fair share of it. But whenever she entered the small ward (at regular intervals), she could not help wondering what nightmares he was going through now, and whether he was still struggling with the scene that she wanted to ask him about.

Who could tell - with her mistake, she might have pushed him deeper into those dangerous nightmares. Because of her own personal emotions, she had let down her severely injured patient, who was fighting for his life. As dawn was approaching, and the wards quietened down, she became aware of an increasing conviction that it was too early to give up yet.

But she could fail again. It _had_ been difficult to enter his dream ... No wonder, given all the effort to close down his mind that he had been dreaming of... But she had succeeded once, and it should be easier for the second time.

Her own personal quest aside, how much effort did this man deserve? She had never had such thoughts before. Of course, she had never treated Death Eaters yet, except that after the battle there had been a few of them who had been captured wounded... But she had not regarded them as Death Eaters, only as patients, and she left the rest to those whose job was justice. Her job was to save others from suffering.

Yet, she had been unable to disregard this particular patient's past and background story. It was wrong of her, probably - how could she guess how much of his dream was based on actual reality and how much on fears or others' stories? But she knew that at least _some_ of that dream had to be, in essence, true - and that was precisely the part that caused her anxiety.

She had not been a healer for long, and her sense of vocation had not yet been put to such a test. She stepped closer to the unconscious wizard, for a minute studying the thin, pale face; the stern, aquiline nose; the bitter line of the bloodless lips; the untidy black hair spread against the white pillow like so many raven feathers scattered on the snow; the bandaged neck and the hands with the long fingers, stiff and bent in a talon-like way. He was her patient. It was her duty to treat him to the best of her ability. After that, she might start asking what he was to others - but not before.

_Th__e Dark Lord's wand was directed at him. He had told the Dark Lord his lies; or rather, he had acted his part in the scene - and it would soon turn out how well or badly. He had to wait for the verdict with the resignation and humility befitting his role. If the acting was not perfect, the actor would surely die a most real death. But he had entered the stage knowing what to expect in case of a flop. If he was successful, he would get away with a little torture written into his role from the start._

_But the torture was not the usual kind. He had expected the Cruciatus Curse for being late, for having in the past asked the Dark Lord to spare Lily's life, for having lived comfortably at Hogwarts for years. His punishment was, however, different. With a whirl, the cemetery of Great Hangleton changed into the graveyard in Godric's Hollow, from which some evil power forced him to go to a house that he had never visited but had imagined a thousand times, and he knew what was going to happen there, and he was afraid more than he had ever been afraid of the Cruciatus Curse or of death. He rushed into the house, hoping against hope that he could prevent what was going to be done, but the Dark Lord had been quicker. The Dark Lord was already raising his wand with a cold, cruel laughter, and Lily was screaming in front of him, terrified and yet fearless, protecting her son. _

_His attempt to save her had no chance to succeed, and he was forced to watch her die, as he had watched Dumbledore before... _

_Then someone took his hand._

_"Let's go," said a voice that he thought he had already heard._

"_Leave me …alone…"_

_He did not know if the Dark Lord was still there, and he could not see the room or the cot with the baby in it any more. He saw only the motionless, lifeless Lily in a darkened world, and he dragged himself closer to her. _

_"There'__s nothing you can do for her. We must find a way out."_

_He did not even turn his head to see who was talking to him. He could not imagine that a way out existed at all, nor was he interested in it.__ With a shaking hand, he tried to touch Lily, but she was absorbed by the growing darkness, remaining ever unreachable to him._

_The darkness was all around now, and Snape could hear voices - a man's shouts and a woman's screams, and he shuddered. There was no place in the universe where he was welcome. _

_"It's time to leave this bad dream__," the earlier voice said, and a hand pressed his hand._

_He perceived__ authority in the voice and in the touch, and slowly, he obeyed. He did not care where he was being led though. It was a long walk, and he had to get past more tormenting images born of things he had seen and done as well as of events that only _could have_ happened. In the realm of nightmares, they had the same degree of reality. _

_Like a drowning person, grabbed__ in the last moments by a rescuer, he was being pulled upwards, towards the air where he could breathe again. And like a person just saved from drowning, he still found breathing difficult, for his airway was blocked by the emotions he had been made to relive, and he was suffering from a fever burning inside... _

Irene slowly emerged from the trance-like state that dream-guiding meant. It took her several minutes to recall and analyse what she had experienced. She was not sure whether she had succeeded or failed. After long and tiring guide work, she had left the patient alone finally, but this time their parting was different. They had left behind the venom-induced nightmares. The last scene she had seen was a river with a doe on its bank. The doe was drinking water from the river, and suddenly she realized that her patient had arrived at a place where a stranger had no business following him.

It was morning, the nightshift had ended, but she removed the old bandage from the snakebite and replaced it with a new one before leaving. She murmured a few spells, carefully tracing her wand along the wound, when suddenly the professor moaned and panted, but as soon as the new bandage was in place, he became quiet. She gaped at him, heart thumping wildly. It was the first time she had seen the patient respond to any outside stimuli, including physical pain. Irene stood silent for a while; then she hurried off to inform her colleague, who was already visiting the other wards, several wizards clad in St Mungo's healer-robes at her heels.

* * *

><p>At first, all he could sense was the invisible, heavy burden all over his body, which hampered even the slightest movement – he could hardly move his eyelids; he could just barely breathe. But soon the pain in his neck helped him recall who he was and what he had been through. He recalled it only gradually and with gaps, as though trying to remember some very old times. Memories came in random order, and he could not always separate visions from reality with any certainty. Then, motionless as he was, he tried to take in his environment. He compared it with images of places he recalled, but his surroundings were different now. The lights and the colours were different. The objects he could see above him (he was lying on his back) were different as well, though he could not tell what exactly they were.<p>

He slowly moved a very heavy hand as he was becoming aware of the rest of his body, and he felt his fingers touch something that was both soft and crisp. It was some textile… bed linen – there were the sheets, the blanket, the pillow ... everything as it should be when one was in bed; except that he could not remember how he had got there.

His hand reached a bandaged wound, which he identified as the source of the pain. It reminded him of the Dark Lord ... and Nagini attacking him… and Potter. The memories were becoming distinctly clearer. What had Potter done? There had been a battle, and he had _wanted_ to tell Potter… no - he _had_ told him. But had Potter listened? And how had the battle ended? It _must_ have ended - the silence was far too great.

He raised his head a bit, and the pain in his neck became sharper. He fell back onto the pillow, but he had managed to cast a quick glance around. He was in a room in the Hospital Wing. He saw transparent tubes through which liquids were travelling into his veins. With another effort, he turned his head aside to have a closer look at the liquids. One of them was a fairly common potion given to patients previously bitten by snakes. Another tube contained a potion that carried essential nutrients into his body to keep him alive without ordinary food and drink…

Who was looking after him and why? To put it somewhat differently: Who had won the battle? He remembered someone referring to him as Dumbledore's murderer.

Dumbledore's murderer! That was what he was to everyone. Not only the Dark Lord had tried to kill him, but Minerva as well, and she was not alone with this intention. If _they_ were the victors – would they look after him with such care? Someone had taken him all the way from the Shrieking Shack to the Hospital Wing. Someone had placed him into a properly made bed – someone had removed his dirty, blood-stained robes, washed him and dressed him into hospital pyjamas (that series of events was quite uncomfortable to imagine, actually) – and someone had seen to it that he was given medicine and nutrients. His wounded neck was bandaged. It hurt, but not as much as it had hurt before. He was receiving professional treatment; but was it what they thought a traitor and a murderer deserved?

He had given his memories to Potter – but Potter had had to die if the Dark Lord was to be defeated; and he could not picture Potter (if Potter _had_ watched those memories at all) telling everyone the truth about Dumbledore's death just before he was meeting his own death. Who would have been interested in the truth about Severus Snape in the middle of a battle, as people were dying every minute and they all were in mortal danger?

Their reason to save his life could only be that they wanted to interrogate him, to try him, to punish him, as the Dark Lord's right hand man. And they just might be noble enough to give him proper treatment while he was ill so he could be fair game later…

If the battle had been won by the Dark Lord, he would doubtless have been left in the Shack to die, as the Dark Lord himself had intended. Although… regarding his true allegiance, the Dark Lord had never been any wiser than the members of the Order of the Phoenix. Having won the battle and discovering that he was still alive, the Dark Lord might have concluded that he could still use him somehow, and could therefore spare his life. If that was the case, would he ever have the strength to fight his own personal battle all over again?

The intensifying pain in his neck diverted his attention from these thoughts, and he groaned a little. But as he heard the door of the room open, he instinctively closed his eyes. He needed information more than anything.

"I don't know, Hubert" said a voice that he recognized as Madam Pomfrey's. "Here he is… I'm not at all convinced that it would be a good idea."

"Let me see," replied an unfamiliar male voice. "There are various ways of transportation…"

"And all of them are either too exhausting or too slow! He hardly survived the way from the village into this room. The journey to St. Mungo's would be too dangerous at the moment."

"But think of our possibilities, Poppy. Our highly specialized staff, our state-of-the-art equipment … I would never question your expertise, but the infrastructure here is not designed for such difficult cases. Besides, you alone are looking after all those who are not taken to St. Mungo's."

"The other patients who are staying here are the ones who will be better in a few days; and I'm not alone. The colleague who volunteered to help when the battle was in full rage says she can stay a couple of more days. Professor Snape can still go to St. Mungo's when he gets a little stronger. In the meantime, the hospital's experts can assist us in other ways."

The male voice did not respond. Snape could sense a wand approach his body, he could feel some warm magic scanning him, and he slightly opened his eyes.

He saw Madam Pomfrey and the stranger – a healer from St. Mungo's – standing over him with grave countenances. The visitor was holding out his wand, his face all attention, and he shook his head from time to time.

"So you say you have obtained a sample of the snake venom?" he said when the diagnostic magic was over. "I'm told it is supposedly the same snake that attacked Arthur Weasley more than two years ago. We will certainly take a look into those files, too."

"We were afraid that it might be too late – but Professor Slughorn has successfully extracted a sample that might be enough for the purpose of analysis."

"I'm glad the beast was dead," the wizard chuckled. "It simplified things for good old Horace."

"I'm glad that villain of its master is dead," Madam Pomfrey said. "That's what I call a relief."

The healers left the patient's bed, and continued their discussion in subdued voices at a distance.

Snape did not mind them. He was wide awake now, and the words he had just heard had given him food for thought that could last for several lonely hours.

So the Dark Lord was dead and the war was over. He wanted to savour the idea of victory without anything to disturb the feeling of triumph that he had never really hoped to have a chance to experience. Had he not invested enough in the fight to deserve that moment? But it struck him as rather a shock that the boy (apparently) had actually bothered to watch the memories he had given him, and that the boy had accepted the message he had found in them – Dumbledore's message delivered by the man who had killed Dumbledore.

The Dark Lord's death (provided he was truly dead, not just turned into a monstrous ghost as he had been after killing Lily) meant Potter was dead, too, and Snape was trying in vain to give a name to the strange turmoil it had caused. He had known it had to happen. He had understood why. And yet, that was what he had tried to prevent for years.

He wondered how many people had died in the battle, and especially how students had been affected. Despite the many atrocities, no one had been killed or captured by the Death Eaters at Hogwarts during his headmastership. Some had had to run away – like the Longbottom boy, who had unexpectedly turned into a teenage ringleader and could not stay quiet for two days in a row … or Hagrid, who had organized 'Support Harry Potter' parties in his hut, not worrying (probably not even realizing) that besides himself, he was putting dozens of rebellious students in grave danger, and, naturally, it had been _his_ job (after Hagrid's escape) to make sure each of them would stay in one piece.

But those who had had to flee had always managed to get away; and no one suspected how many times the Carrows' drinks had been spiked with a type of sleeping draught designed to be undetectable in certain liquids. He had developed the draught especially for this purpose, so they could sleep sound while one of the Dumbledore's Army dunderheads was making his secret escape through some hidden, magical escape route.

The Lovegood girl had been captured, but only after leaving Hogwarts for the holidays. She should have stayed at the school or she should have left the country early on – the articles in her foolish father's magazine were practically asking for trouble.

On the other hand, he had succeeded in protecting the obnoxious Weasley girl until her parents came to their senses and removed her from the spotlight. He had never understood what the Weasleys had been thinking in the first place when they had allowed her to return to the Dark Lord's school – if anyone, _they_ should have realized what was at stake. And that headstrong girl had actually reached for her wand (he had seen the movement very clearly) after hearing his decision that she was not allowed to go to Hogsmeade or to leave the school grounds for any purposes. Of course, she had not really dared to hex him, she had only looked daggers at him; but she had been forced to stay in the relative safety of the castle instead of being allowed to hot-headedly run into a Death Eater's arms out in the village.

He had done everything in his power to protect the students, although no one besides him knew that. Others saw only the tortures that had taken place in the school and the increasing number of runaway rebels – but who could count those who _would have been_ tortured, kidnapped, or killed by Death Eaters or Kissed by hungry Dementors if he had not watched over them? As the battle had started, he had not been able to protect them any more – his only hope had been to find Potter, the only one who could put an end to it all… _One_ had to be sacrificed to save many others – it had to be, even if that _one_ was Lily's son… Yet, he could not escape the guilty feeling creeping up on him like a cold, slimy snake.


	3. Aquamarine for Acromantula

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 3**

_Aquamarine for Acromantula_

Madam Pomfrey bent closer to Snape and took his pulse.

"Can you hear me, Professor?" she asked quietly.

Snape tried to answer, but the sound he produced was nothing but an inarticulate, raspy growl, causing a dry, burning pain in his throat.

"It is enough if you nod," Madam Pomfrey said. "You're strictly forbidden to speak. Does your wound hurt?"

Snape nodded.

"Any other pains?"

He raised his hand slowly and touched his head.

"Yes, your temperature is a little high, I'm afraid," Madam Pomfrey said.

She reached for the bandage on Snape's neck, and swiftly removed it. The pain was now almost as intense as it had been back in the Shack.

"Just a minute," said Madam Pomfrey, placing her wand over the wound.

She muttered several spells; then left him for a few moments, during which the healer from St. Mungo's inspected the injury with keen interest, as though it was some curio. Snape clenched his teeth, but then Madam Pomfrey returned; and as soon as she placed a new bandage on the wound, the pain eased, then gradually ceased.

"It has to be changed frequently," Madam Pomfrey explained. "With your injury, the painkilling charm it has been impregnated with wears off rapidly."

She turned to her colleague.

"So what are you saying?"

The healer sounded slightly less enthusiastic than before.

"The risk is great, either way."

That was easy to translate. He was still in a critical condition.

"Perhaps we should ask the patient's opinion."

Madam Pomfrey appeared to hesitate for a second; then she looked at Snape again.

"Professor Snape," she began, "most of those who were injured in the battle have already been transferred to St. Mungo's. The last group of patients must be taken today. Some patients with lighter injuries will stay here until they recover. In your case, we have the following dilemma: You lost a lot of blood, you were poisoned by snake venom, and you have been unconscious for a long time. We are afraid you may not be strong enough for the journey to St. Mungo's. However, if you do get there alive, you can benefit from the hospital's … _superior infrastructure_… if you know what I mean."

She cast a quick glance at the other healer before continuing.

"You must understand there are risks involved whatever we choose … and you don't _have to be _the one to make this decision ... but if you do have a preference, you can let me know by nodding or shaking your head. Do you want to be transferred to St. Mungo's now?"

Snape shook his head without pondering the answer.

"Do you want to stay at Hogwarts, and receive whatever treatment you can get here?"

He nodded.

"Well," said Madam Pomfrey to her colleague, "perhaps that settles it. Come, Hubert, I must discuss a few questions with you before you leave."

They left the ward. Snape stared after them; and then he carefully looked around again. It was easier now that his wound did not hurt. He was alone. He did not crave anyone's company, but he could not help thinking his isolation in the Hospital Wing at a time when there must have been lots of wounded people in the castle had an obvious significance. Though not even a blink of an eye indicated that Snape was different from Madam Pomfrey's many other patients, he supposed it was the routine of a bona fide healer. He was probably under arrest – even if guards and bars were completely unnecessary.

Madam Pomfrey returned, and helped him into a half-sitting position. Propped up by pillows, he watched the matron approach with a goblet and a spoon.

"You must try to drink this," she said.

She put the spoon into the goblet, but Snape shook his head. He would not be spoon-fed. Why could he not drink? He reached for the goblet.

"Careful," Madam Pomfrey warned.

He smelled the potion – he recognized the solution for internal wounds. He took a gulp – and then something happened that he was completely unprepared for. The drink was burning his throat, and he began coughing and choking wildly. Madam Pomfrey swiftly caught the goblet as he dropped it, so that the potion did not get spilled. She remained calm.

"That's the only medication you must swallow," she said. "Everything else can go via the tubes, but this one must reach your throat."

"Wa…ter," he choked.

Madam Pomfrey brought him water – in a spoon. It burnt his savaged throat almost as much as the potion. Then Madam Pomfrey fed him several spoonfuls of the healing solution - she accepted no objection this time. Snape was now prepared and swallowed the liquid as carefully as he could. He felt the potion leave a thin, film-like layer inside his throat, which still hurt, but he was able to handle the pain. It was being weak that he truly resented.

Every one of Madam Pomfrey's well-practised movements, as she was doing her various chores around him, underlined the degree of his dependence on her, making him deeply mortified. It did not help that the matron noticed his embarrassment.

"I'm an old woman, Professor, and I've seen many otherwise strong men in similar positions," she said. "When they recover, they quickly forget what they don't like to remember."

Snape did not respond. Where was the inscrutable expression he had practised with so much success before?

* * *

><p>Irene got up at about one o'clock and went to the Great Hall for lunch. On her way there, she saw the signs of a busy life everywhere, in sharp contrast with the quiet of the Hospital Wing: Hogwarts was being renovated. The walls were being rebuilt, the broken charms and other magic replaced, the traces of destructive dark magic eliminated. It was a huge work in a huge building and in the vast school grounds, of which Irene had seen very little yet. As she entered the Great Hall, she met an elderly witch wearing green tartan robes, who hurried to her at once.<p>

"I'm very glad to see you," she said with a tired smile. "Would you mind coming up to my office after lunch?"

Irene nodded, wondering what Headmistress McGonagall wanted from her, but before going up to the circular office, she had to satisfy her curiosity, so she walked back to the Hospital Wing to inquire after the patients. She found out that the transfer to St. Mungo's had been completed and that Professor Snape had stayed at Hogwarts. He was conscious but he had a fever.

In the circular office, the Headmistress greeted her with a handshake.

"I wanted to take the opportunity," she said as they sat down, "to thank you for your work. Madam Pomfrey told me your help during the battle had been invaluable, and we all are very grateful to you for staying here to treat the injured."

"I'm not a fighter," Irene replied. "I volunteered as a healer because this was my only chance to help."

"I understand you are working very hard for us …I'd like to know if you need anything – if you have any questions, problems, requests… I will be glad to be of assistance. Your room, for example -"

"- Is perfect," Irene said quickly. "I'm absolutely satisfied with everything."

"Good," the professor said. "Of course, if anything comes up while you are here…"

Irene was thinking. After all … why not?

"I have a question," she began slowly. "It's not simple curiosity …"

"What is it?" McGonagall asked with interest.

Irene looked straight into her eyes.

"What kind of a man is Professor Snape?"

McGonagall stared back at her; then sighed.

"I thought _I_ would ask _you_ about him… Madam Pomfrey hasn't yet allowed any visitors, but she has sent me word that he's conscious at last."

"We hope we can get a new potion for him from St. Mungo's," Irene explained. "The one we are using doesn't help much. Now that he is conscious, it'll be difficult to save him from permanent pain. He won't be able to eat or drink or even speak properly for a while. But wounds can be healed. He must be strong if he has survived until now. The question is whether he can receive an antidote strictly corresponding to the venom or not."

The professor's face did not betray any emotion, but it took several minutes before she spoke again.

"Thank you," she said. "I hear it was his choice to stay at Hogwarts instead of being taken to St. Mungo's."

McGonagall rose, and cast a quick glance at the portrait of a very old wizard sleeping peacefully behind her desk.

"As for your question… what kind of a man is Severus Snape? - Believe it or not, I have also asked myself the very same question recently. And not only myself…"

She looked at the portrait of the old wizard again.

"There was a time when I thought I knew him. Then something happened which made me think I had never known him. In a way – I was wrong. But in a way – I was right. Severus Snape used to be a Death Eater for a short time in his youth. Later he was our spy as well as a professor of this school, a genius - no - a real artist of potion-making. When the Ministry fell, he became Headmaster of Hogwarts - you can imagine in what circumstances. No one suspected his true allegiance."

"No one?" Irene repeated incredulously.

"We all believed him to be a traitor. This was … part of the plan between him and Professor Dumbledore … Severus Snape, the perfect spy! What he did was essential for us to win the war. I'm also beginning to realize how he was saving lives whenever he had a chance. He didn't _always_ have a chance though. What he did required exceptional bravery and amazing moral courage. But all through this, he remained invisible to all of us, more invisible than he could have been under the best invisibility cloak. I'm afraid there's no living soul who could sincerely claim to understand him - except _one_, maybe. Maybe. I myself want to talk to him soon."

"Who is it?" Irene asked eagerly. But immediately she felt embarrassed about the tone of the question, and she hurried to add, "I have a reason to inquire."

"Is it a reason that you can - perhaps - share with me?"

McGonagall's strict eyes were scrutinizing her. Irene did not hesitate long.

"I think it is," she said.

* * *

><p>Snape's temperature remained high, and the headache did not cease, no matter what Madam Pomfrey was doing about it. By the evening, his condition had considerably worsened: He was suffering repeated spasmodic pains in his limbs, and he had difficulty distinguishing the contours of the objects around him. The breathing problem returned in a graver form.<p>

It was easy to see what was happening: The effect of the snakebite had not been neutralized; only retarded by the treatment, and the spread of the venom could only be halted for so long. Madam Pomfrey increased the amount of the potions Snape was receiving to the allowed maximum, and she added cooling potion for the fever and painkilling potion for his head, with the result that his senses were dulled at least as much as the various pains.

He just barely noticed what was taking place around him and with him, and Madam Pomfrey stayed in his ward until he was asleep. But his sleep was not a tranquil one. He woke up suddenly and with a start.

It was dark outside, and the ward was dimly lit, but there was a glowing whiteness quite close to him. A figure, strangely shining in the half-light, was bending over him. He could smell the scent of a mixture of herbs as a cool, wet piece of cloth was placed on his forehead.

"This will make you feel better, Professor," she said.

She spoke in a quiet, soft and calm healer voice, in a tone that was probably reserved for terminally ill patients only. Of course ... she could only be the other healer, the one Madam Pomfrey had mentioned. She was using an infusion of magical herbs to reduce his fever. The mundane facts of reality came back, and he did not understand what had startled him at first.

"Bad ... dream ..." he mumbled.

The healer carefully lifted his head and put another piece of cloth, dipped in the same antipyretic herbal infusion, on the nape of his neck. She was busy with the tubes and the potions for a while; then she raised her wand, the tip of which emitted a steady white light, and she murmured a series of incantations.

Snape's gaze followed her movements. She seemed much younger than Madam Pomfrey, in fact, significantly younger than Snape, and he wondered whether he should know her. She looked young enough to have been his student, but he could not remember her. (Then again, everyone who was at least a few years younger than him was young enough to have been taught by him, and he could not be expected to remember and recognize every single former student.) He did not rack his brains too long. Sleep was dragging him back into its uncanny realm; and the venom in his veins was gaining power…

For many hours this was the most that he got - minutes of clear thinking alternating with long periods of feverish semi-consciousness. He merely endured the treatment, which could ease the fever and the pain temporarily only, and he had no real idea how hard the two witches were working. Irene had gone back to the Hospital Wing long before her shift started, and Madam Pomfrey herself stayed up all night. But the situation became really grave only after midnight, when the owl from St. Mungo's came.

Madam Pomfrey took the letter tied to its leg. She opened the envelope, skimmed the message, and glanced at Irene.

"Someone must stay with Professor Snape all the time," she said.

Irene knew that. The various potions and herbs were necessary but not enough, and they had to resort to sheer wand magic to keep the professor's temperature in control and his body from succumbing to the lethal effect of the snake venom. It was a very tiring job, impossible to keep up for a long time, as it required the almost continuous use of magic as well as the precise concentration of considerable energy. But they were waiting for the new potion from St. Mungo's, hoping that their effort would preserve the patient's life until it arrived.

"But someone must look after all the other patients as well," Madam Pomfrey continued.

That was clear, too. Despite what the matron had told Hubert, there were quite a few other patients in the Hospital Wing to attend to.

Professor Firenze, the centaur, alone in a ward that had been magically transformed to look like a forest, had seemed mortally wounded at first, as he could not tolerate any medicine that humans used. However, after Hagrid had talked to the centaurs of the Forbidden Forest, they sent Professor Firenze some leaves wrapped into other leaves, which only Madam Pomfrey was allowed to touch, on condition that she was not going to either inquire after or speak about the contents of the package. The leaves had worked wonders, and the centaur was recovering from his injuries.

There were also students among the injured. Irene already knew all of them by name: Lavender Brown, who, after being very badly Stunned, had been saved from a werewolf attack by the skin of her teeth; Padma Patil, whose twin sister could not be persuaded to leave the ward; Ernie Macmillan, who had to stay in the Hospital Wing for observation because of certain hallucinations that he had undergone on the day following the battle; and little Dennis Creevey, who had suffered a severe shock after learning that his brother had died.

Another adult who would not go to St. Mungo's was Madam Rosmerta, the proprietor of the Three Broomsticks. She had been injured near her inn as she had fought two Death Eaters fleeing from the battle.

The rest of the patients were house-elves, who had to be kept away from the humans, otherwise they would not have been able to resist the urge to serve.

"And I must go away," Madam Pomfrey finished.

Irene looked perplexed. How was she to do everything alone?

"Did you get bad news?" she inquired gingerly.

"Very bad," Madam Pomfrey fumed, "I guess you are familiar with the name Healer Juniperus?"

"Yes," Irene answered, "she teaches trainee healers. We all were terribly afraid of her exams. She's the Head of the Laboratories in St. Mungo's."

"That's her," Madam Pomfrey snorted bitterly. "Pigheaded, old poisoner. I must talk to her immediately. I'll call a house-elf to help you."

She left without any further explanation, and soon two house-elves (a male and a female) turned up in the Hospital Wing offering their services to Irene. She asked them to watch over the various patients and to alert her if anything happened, while she herself pointed her wand at Professor Snape and repeated the exhausting spells that (if she did them well) would once again bring the Professor back from the verge of death.

If she hoped things would not get any more difficult, she was wrong.

About an hour after Madam Pomfrey's departure, the door of the ward swung open and a short, fat man with a large belly staggered in. He was bold but he had an enormous, walrus-like moustache, and Irene knew she had seen him on the night of the battle. He was holding up his hands in a very strange angle, and Irene instantly saw that they were swollen to at least twice of their normal size.

"Antidote," he panted. "Quickly... I could do it for myself if my hands -"

He carefully waved the enlarged, shaking extremities and fell into a chair that Irene brought to him. He did not seem to notice that someone else was in the ward with them or to think that he might have interrupted something important. Irene could not leave Professor Snape alone with his fever for more than a few minutes (she had used those minutes for relaxing so far); therefore she rushed to the cabinet where the antidotes were. The visitor dictated which antidote she should choose, and she did not even think of arguing. He appeared to be knowledgeable enough, and she had no time to go through the usual process.

"Here you are," she said, offering the potion to the stranger, but he did not take it.

Instead, he took a small vial out of a pocket of his emerald pyjamas and, holding it between his swollen fingers, he clumsily handed it to her.

"Acromantula ... bite," he said as his hands were visibly growing larger. "The antidote will not be effective without a bit of acromantula venom in it. You must cook them together until the liquid turns aquamarine. Not more than three drops in a full bottle of antidote. Hurry ... up..."

He seemed to be in pain and unable to say more. Irene dragged a cauldron out of a cabinet, and for a moment wondered what she was doing. It was against the rules to brew potions in hospital wards, but she had no choice. She lit the fire and placed the cauldron on it. Then she turned back to Professor Snape and murmured the spells again. That she had not been able to relax between spells was affecting her performance, and the professor's temperature stayed dangerously high.

"Hurry ... up..." the acromantula-bitten patient repeated in a faint voice.

As soon as Irene deemed it safe to leave Professor Snape again, she stepped to the cauldron and poured the antidote into it. She added three drops of the venom, and the liquid became black. It seemed improbable that it would ever progress to an aquamarine colour, but she had no better idea than try it. The fat wizard was letting out horrible sounds, and soon she had to return to Professor Snape...

"Winky!" she called.

The female house-elf appeared at once.

"Could you do something about him?" she whispered, indicating the fat wizard with a glance. "I can't concentrate in this terrible noise."

"Professor Slughorn!" Winky squealed. "Winky takes him to an empty ward and calms him."

With this, both the elf and the wizard were gone. Minutes passed, but the antidote stubbornly remained the same black colour. Irene was not a potioneer. She was able to brew a range of potions commonly used for healing, and she knew how to _use _an even larger range of potions that had already been brewed. But preparing a highly specialized antidote _without a recipe_ was a separate profession.

Back to Professor Snape. Back to the cauldron again. Professor Snape was shaking with fever. The fire was heating the ward, and the smell coming from the cauldron was worryingly unpleasant. Professor Snape's hooked nose was twitching, and Irene was beginning to panic. It was all too likely now that she was going to lose two patients on the same night. _Why had Madam Pomfrey left her alone? Why?_

"And why did you never teach us how to make aquamarine antidote for acromantula bite?" she muttered, dipping a compress into the antipyretic infusion.

_Why had they wasted their time on Forgetfulness Potion and Shrinking Solution? _

The professor hissed. He raised his head from the pillow, staring intently at Irene. His muscles tensed and his face contorted, as he forced himself to speak.

"Counter ... clockwise... seven... teen... " he rasped.

She did not seriously consider the possibility that it might be only the fever talking with Professor Snape's mouth. She jumped to the cauldron and stirred it counter-clockwise seventeen times. The black colour gradually changed into aquamarine...

As the offensive odour ceased, Snape knew the antidote would be all right. A properly brewed potion still retained some value for him. He sank back on the pillow, panting, as the healer hurried to administer the medicine to the other patient. By the time she returned, the visible world around him had turned into a collection of fuzzy shapes and indistinct colours.

Irene was back just in time - the patient's condition called for urgent action. As she removed the bandage from his neck, she felt his warm blood trickling onto her skin. The wound was bleeding.

"I can stop this," she said defiantly, although she was almost trembling with fatigue. "I may not be as good at potions as you are, Professor, but I can deal with _this_."

But Snape was beyond caring. He already regretted he had not got it over with in the Shrieking Shack. He had been on the very brink… Now he could be in for a long and painful process, and he had no one he could ask to do him the 'small favour' that he had done to Dumbledore. What was the fuss about anyway? His life had reached a dead end. It was a relief to know that the Dark Lord was defeated and dead at last; and that the spying and lying was over; but he did not believe he could have any future to speak of. With the war won, the duty done, and the boy (along with so many others) killed, he was left with nothing to live for.


	4. The Visitor

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 4**

_The Visitor_

"I do not usually stay up so late at night," said the strikingly old witch, staring at Madam Pomfrey. "If you hadn't been one of my favourite students, I'd never even have considered letting you enter my house at this unearthly hour. I hope you have a very good reason to -"

"I do," Madam Pomfrey interrupted, wiping the ash off her robes. Being called the old woman's favourite student did not seem to have any effect on her. "We must go to the hospital at once."

The other one's lips twisted into a slightly condescending smile.

"I don't do night duty any more, my dear. At my age and in my position-"

"I don't care," Madam Pomfrey snapped. "You are needed there. Urgently."

"What for?"

"You must do what you failed to do in your regular working hours. You must order your people back to the hospital and you must finish designing the potion for Professor Snape!"

The very old healer's expression hardened.

"If that's what you want, you should have stayed at Hogwarts, Poppy. I do _not_ work for Death Eaters."

"He's not a Death Eater."

"He worked for You-Know-Who. Call him what you want, I'm not interested in subtleties. All of them are Death Eaters to me."

"He didn't work for You-Know-Who."

"I know what I know," Healer Juniperus retorted. "I read the papers every day, and I know how to read between the lines. The wizard you're talking about was appointed Headmaster after the fall of Scrimgeour's Ministry. Just because he's ill or dying, I won't pardon him or any other of them."

"Then you may just sentence an innocent man to death," Madam Pomfrey replied. "There are people who are convinced he was working for our side all along."

"There are people who can't accept the fact that Dumbledore made such a basic mistake," Healer Juniperus said bitterly. "Ridiculous. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater."

"Harry Potter-"

"Harry Potter is a very young hero, and he can be deceived. Not even Dumbledore was infallible."

"No one is. _You_ are driven by blind hatred and personal revenge," said Madam Pomfrey. "But Professor Snape didn't hurt you or your family."

Her former teacher's face was like a piece of stone into which a million thin lines had been carved.

"They're all the same," she hissed. "I want to see them all locked up and tortured to death. _All of them_."

"Oh, and you don't care if innocent people die along the way as long as none of _them_ escapes?"

"How dare you say that!" snarled the old witch. "I've spent a very long lifetime healing others and saving lives -"

"And that's exactly what I'm asking you to do now, Calendula," Madam Pomfrey said. "With your unique expertise you can rescue one more life tonight. If he is guilty, _that_ will not save him from Azkaban -"

"All right," Healer Juniperus cut in. "I'll do what you are asking - as a special favour for _you_. I'll have to wake up one of my colleagues to help me."

"Only _one_?" Madam Pomfrey repeated with surprise.

Healer Juniperus shrugged.

"The formula was almost ready when I realized who we were working for. One will be enough, yes."

"Very well," Madam Pomfrey answered. "You must hurry up - we don't have much time."

Healer Juniperus snorted; then she gazed intently into Madam Pomfrey's eyes.

"Don't think I've been ... _softened up_. The Wizengamot will soon meet and I won't miss any Death Eater trials. No one wants to repeat the mistakes of last time. Any of the scoundrels who can't prove their innocence will have a hard time when they meet _me_. I'll keep an eye out for your professor, Poppy."

* * *

><p>Madam Pomfrey returned at dawn, and put a potion bottle on the bedside table next to Snape's bed.<p>

"The new potion," she announced proudly. "Let's be quick."

"Very quick," Irene muttered, feeling drained and stiff with forced concentration. "He's barely alive."

It took some time for the new medicine to take effect, but the patient's temperature _was_ going down at last. Irene stayed with him as Madam Pomfrey left to do her morning routine in the other wards, to examine Professor Slughorn, and to listen to the full story behind the acromantula-bite. The castle was in complete turmoil, while Hagrid was searching for the escaped acromantula puppy that Slughorn had found wounded after the battle and taken to his private room. His reasons were not purely charitable though: He had hoped to milk the creature for its precious venom, but it outsmarted the sly old Slytherin, who was lucky enough to be still alive.

Snape watched the young healer with a mixture of curiosity and resentment. He recognized now the stranger who had entered his dream, trying to lead him away from the nightmares and towards waking up. The idea that he had been in need of assistance even beyond the already degrading physical treatment irked him. He understood that the snake venom could have pushed him into a sleep too deep to wake up from and that those bad dreams were in fact magical traps for his extremely vulnerable mind, but something inside him still rejected the undue familiarity inevitably involved in the rescue.

Although earlier he himself had given his memories to the boy, it was because the lives of innumerable wizards, witches and Muggles had depended on the message, and he had thought he was dying anyway. (What was more, he had known Potter would soon die, too.) But that did not mean that the contents of his mind (_his_ mind of all minds!) belonged in the public domain so that anyone with a purpose less important than saving the country was allowed to come and have a look around at will.

She treated him with the tactful, deferential reserve that no one would have found fault with, from an objective standpoint. Snape was not objective, however, - he might be dying, but he still could not bear being the passive target of such dutiful goodness. If _she_ was a healer, _he_ was Professor Snape, Potions Master, Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Head of Slytherin House and Headmaster of Hogwarts (though he did not like this last title at all). He had also been Dumbledore's spy and secret weapon in the war against the Dark Lord. With a sudden impulse, he forced his face into a stern grimace and, instinctively choosing just the right moment, he shot towards her a glance that Gryffindor students had never failed to interpret (correctly) as a dire threat.

Her eyes met his, but she looked away at once, and, shortly after that, she left the ward. Snape had a vague feeling that it was not quite the reaction he had expected, although what exactly he had intended to achieve he could not tell.

The unfriendly gesture backfired. He realized that the painkilling bandage on his neck needed to be changed, but the healer was away. He could have rung to her – all he had to do was reaching for the magical bell – but he could not bring himself to do it. Therefore he was stubbornly enduring the growing pain, trying various methods to distract his own attention, with an ever strengthening awareness of the futility of these attempts.

But the door opened at last, and he could hardly suppress a sigh of relief, as the healer hurried directly to him and replaced the old bandage with a new one.

"Is it better?" she asked quietly, without a trace of anger in her voice.

"Much better," he whispered, forgetting that he was only supposed to nod.

It was but a shadow of a smile that flickered across her face for a brief second. Snape saw it, and he thought it might have been a _triumphant_ smile. Oh, well, he could at least _pretend_ to be asleep finally...

All of a sudden, Madam Pomfrey greeted him.

"Good morning, Professor Snape," the matron said in an unusually cheerful way. "As for breakfast, I can give you nothing but your medicine." She brought him the solution for internal wounds. "But I dare say, in a day or two, you'll be able to drink and eat as well."

In the course of the morning, Madam Pomfrey briefed Snape on the details of his illness and the therapy. She told him how long he had been unconscious, what potions he had received, she talked about dream guiding, and she explained that a new, more effective potion had been prepared for him by the experts of St. Mungo's, on the basis of Nagini's venom, which Professor Slughorn had obtained from the mouth of the dead snake.

It perplexed him that so many others had bothered and gone to such great lengths to save his life – what had made him so important? The change from being the target of murderous intentions on both sides to finding himself in the centre of so much positive attention – healers (and even Horace Slughorn) going out of their way to heal him – was too abrupt for him to simply believe it. What was the point? Did anyone suspect that he had had a hand in Harry Potter's death? Or was it because of the Dark Lord's death that they needed his "right hand man" alive? What information or what other advantage did they hope to gain?

By early afternoon, he had already taken two more doses of the potion for internal wounds, and it had a decidedly beneficial effect: Swallowing it hardly hurt any more; and Madam Pomfrey said that in the evening, he might try to drink some water and then gradually other liquids, too. Speaking was still out of the question, and Snape felt little temptation to break this rule. He was surprised therefore when Madam Pomfrey brought him the following piece of news:

"You have a visitor, Professor. I allowed him ten minutes and not a second more. I told him he was not to exhaust you, and let me warn you as well that you must not forget your condition."

If he had not been so astonished by the fact that he had a visitor, he might have smiled at the warning. As if it was possible to forget about his condition! As for engaging in unnecessary conversation - well, either the visitor was very talkative or the ten minutes would be a tediously long time for both of them.

Madam Pomfrey glanced around in the ward once more. She had arranged everything around him so that no visitor could possibly find fault with his circumstances in the least. Snape noticed her special care and he considered it a somewhat amusing example of the matron's vanity; but soon - when his first shock was over - he felt quite glad that Madam Pomfrey had been so attentive; for the visitor was such that in front of him, Snape would especially have hated to seem any more miserable than it was necessary.

The visitor was Harry Potter. Snape was staring at him, certain that one of his bad dreams was starting anew, as Potter approached Snape slowly and sat down on the chair Madam Pomfrey had been careful enough to place near the bed.

If, only a minute earlier, Snape had not been absolutely convinced that the boy was dead, he would probably have been very angry about this gross intrusion into his privacy by a Potter. As it was, however, the mixture of emotions surging up in him was much more complex – too complex, in fact, for him to recognize any of the ingredients.

"Good afternoon, Professor," Potter muttered, nodding slightly.

Snape returned the greeting with a mere glance. Although Potter had seen him in even worse circumstances, _that_ had been an exceptional situation, not intended as a precedent. Yet, as much as he detested being exposed to onlookers in his current state, not being able to speak had its advantages sometimes. Now, for example, he had an excuse to wait for Potter to say something - there was no need to ask why he had come - or how he could be alive to start with (in the unlikely case that Potter was _not_ a mere nightmare, of course).

Potter reached into his pocket, took out something and showed it to him before placing it on the small table by the bed. It was a flask with some silvery substance in it. He did not need to guess what it was.

"Your memories, Sir," Potter began.

His tone was new to Snape, who nodded this time. For once, Potter had done the right thing, bringing the memories back to him.

"They were very ... useful," Potter added clumsily.

There was a long silence, during which Potter appeared to be trying to say something more. Finally he spoke again.

"I was sure Riddle had killed you, and ..."

Riddle! So the Dark Lord was now '_Riddle_' to the boy who, for better or worse, had never hesitated to say '_Voldemort_'. Snape doubted that anyone in _his_ generation had reached that level of nonchalance.

"... and I'm glad you're alive."

While Snape was processing the meaning of Potter's words, Potter seemed ready to flee. But he did not flee, and at last Snape mustered enough voice to risk uttering a few words.

"I thought ... No one told me... about you -"

His throat was beginning to hurt, and he put all his strength into the effort to conceal it.

"Dumbledore ... said ..."

He stopped to take a rest, as his speech was already turning into an undignified series of groans. The last thing he needed was tears in his eyes induced by the pain in his throat. The boy had seen his memories; therefore he should know what Dumbledore had said anyway.

Potter gaped at him, understanding dawning in his face.

"Has no one told you anything?"

Snape shook his head.

"I think Dumbledore knew - or at least suspected ... hoped - that I would survive Riddle's curse if I let him kill me," Potter explained. "Riddle merely killed a part of himself ... the part of his soul that was in me. But I had to believe I would die ... and I think that's why he didn't tell you ... It allowed me to make a sacrifice similar to my mother's. It worked in a similar way ..."

Potter was talking on, but Snape felt a nervous shudder somewhere inside; and from that moment on, he could only hear maybe every third or fourth word that Potter was saying. It seemed miraculous enough that Potter was alive, and the realization that Dumbledore had knowingly lied to him hurt him deeply; but neither of these discoveries had prepared him for the shock that Potter mentioned Lily to him.

"... and so he died," Potter finished his story. "Really died. And the war was over."

Potter watched him, perhaps expecting some reaction from him, but Snape could only see Lily's eyes gazing at him; and suddenly the boy who had come to visit him was not the facsimile edition of James Potter any more (how _could_ he have been?), but Lily's son, who had indeed vanquished the Dark Lord, as that old, stupid, meaningless and hateful prophecy had perhaps truly predicted, and who had survived just as Lily had intended him to, as Snape had always, ever since Lily's death, wanted him to survive as well.

"Well … done," he whispered with a dry throat and mouth.

Potter's cheeks and neck turned reddish.

"Thanks," he murmured.

They were silent again, but this time it was Snape who felt it necessary to break the silence between them.

"The ... battle ..."

His throat was still dry, and – by some strange coincidence or another inexplicable miracle - Harry Potter stood up, took a few steps away from his sickbed, and brought back a goblet of water to him. Snape grabbed the goblet. He needed something for that horrible dryness; and he was not going to let the boy know that he was not even able to drink properly. The tubes were bad enough already. Besides, Madam Pomfrey had said he could soon try to drink.

He pulled himself upwards a little and drank. He managed tolerably. Potter took the goblet from him, and put it down.

"Many died," Potter replied, not sure what Snape wanted to hear about. "Many -"

"Time is up," Madam Pomfrey's voice cut into the conversation.

She was just entering the ward, and did not look willing to open a debate.

"You can come back another time, Mr Potter," she added.

"I will," said Potter, partly to Madam Pomfrey, partly to Snape. "I watched those by myself," he added hurriedly, indicating the flask full of Snape's memories. "In case you want to know. But I told everyone the truth about Dumbledore's death."

Madam Pomfrey was already shepherding the boy out of the ward.

"Well, Professor?" she inquired, as she returned, "Did you get filled in on everything? He insisted that he had to see you, that Potter boy. More stubborn than Professor McGonagall, I say."

She brought him another gobletful of his potion.

"This will do you good after all that talking," she declared.

Snape obediently drank it up, but as soon as he had a chance, he spoke again.

"M-Minerva?"

"Did she want to see you? Yes, she did. But no more visitors today. You must rest."

"The man who found me in the Shrieking Shack," Snape continued, whispering as carefully as could, "…said he had only wanted …"

"So you remember him," said Madam Pomfrey. "What about him?"

"…wanted to see Dumbledore's ... murderer."

"Did he really say that?" asked Madam Pomfrey. "I didn't get the impression that he regarded you as a murderer. I think he was there when Harry Potter revealed how and why Professor Dumbledore had died."

"Were … you … there, too?"

"What a question," she answered indignantly. "I may have missed a historic moment; but tell me who would have looked after the wounded if Irene and I had gone off to watch a duel?"

"How did you … find out?"

"Professor Snape," Madam Pomfrey replied, "how many years have you lived at Hogwarts? You must realize anything that a few hundred people know is not exactly a secret."

"And do you believe … what Potter said?"

She shrugged.

"I heard nothing that surprised me."

Snape frowned, wondering whether Madam Pomfrey was talking about the same thing as he was. During their conversation, Madam Pomfrey checked his pulse as well as his temperature. She must have found everything in order, since she was willing to say a few more words.

"You may have fooled the others, Professor, but not me. I knew Professor Dumbledore was dying. I saw his dead, blackened hand. I can recognize a mortal injury just as well as you can… When I heard that Death Eaters had broken into the castle, I was fully expecting a great number of injured kids and adults; but there was one wounded only and one dead – the already dying Professor Dumbledore…"

She snorted.

"After you became Headmaster, I was tending to all those children who had been tortured by the Carrows or by some of their teenage followers. Those kids always told me what had happened to them. Do you think I didn't notice that you never tortured anyone and that your appearance in the students' stories, no matter how frightening it seemed to them, always coincided with the quick ending of the torture? Many of those children were actually sent to the Hospital Wing by you… Never by the Carrows…"

Madam Pomfrey snorted again.

"Then one night, when the Michael Corner boy was here … You remember, I suppose? I was sure he had been hit by a dark spell, which I was unable to undo. I was seriously worried, and I wanted to have him taken to St. Mungo's, but our dear Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher prevented it."

"With my help," Snape muttered.

"The boy's condition was so alarming that I got up at night to check on him, and what did I see as I very quietly opened the door? A familiar figure in black, standing by the kid's bed, literally singing some strange spell to him. I was watching you as you left through the fireplace, and then I went to the student immediately. He was sleeping peacefully; his wounds were already half-healed. I kept him in the Hospital Wing for a few more days to observe him, but his recovery was much speedier than anything I could have achieved."

"Did you ever ... mention it to ... any- ... one?"

"Of course not. Professor, if I wrote a book about all the secrets that, in the course of my career, I discovered and kept, I would quickly become rich."

Snape closed his eyes for a moment. It was very fortunate that the Dark Lord had never bothered to visit the Hospital Wing during his short stay at Hogwarts. Madam Pomfrey had no idea how dangerous her discovery had been.

The rest of the day was quiet enough; and Snape had plenty of time to contemplate the new circumstances. He had got so used to being regarded as an enemy that the possibility of the opposite proved difficult to deal with. Potter had revealed the secret of his allegiance... Of course, something like that had happened before. He had been protected by Dumbledore then, and he had been officially absolved but never fully cleared of all suspicion...

Later in the evening, when Madam Pomfrey's colleague came back, he was still awake. The young healer worked silently, and even when she did talk to him, she kept using the same calm 'healer voice' that was disarming and irritating at the same time. It could not make Snape forget that she had seen the very depth of his vulnerability, something not even Madam Pomfrey had been able to see – and in fact, no one but Lily's son had ever been _allowed_ to see. He still was not sure that he approved of the attitude that respected his life more than his privacy, and he remained uncommunicative until she was about to leave the ward. Then - he cleared his throat. She turned around instantly.

"I realize…" Snape began carefully, "you made … commendable … efforts … to –"

At this point he started to cough sincerely and perfectly unintentionally. She gave him his potion, but it took a while before he was able to stop coughing and start drinking. The violent cough exhausted him too much to continue speaking even after drinking the solution, and he felt frustrated.

"You'll get better," she said kindly. "If this night is spent without any emergency, we'll be able to safely conclude that the worst danger is over."

Snape stared at her. He had not yet finished what he had begun saying. Perhaps she had taken the hint because she did not hurry away, but continued talking to him.

"Professor Snape, while you were unconscious, we had to choose, without your consent, what we thought was in your best interest. The dreams you saw were not ordinary dreams, like the ones produced by the brain in a healthy sleep -"

"I know," Snape breathed, cutting her short. "You did … dream guiding. I understand … what it is … and why –"

He was panting heavily as though he had just run many, many miles. He had better make it short now.

"You … deserve … to be … thanked, Healer - … Don't … know your … n-name … sorry."

She responded with a momentary real smile, but immediately she became serious again. She held out her hand for a quick handshake.

"Healer Irene Burbage."


	5. The Energy Extracting Elixir

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter ****5**

_The Energy Extracting Elixir_

_Burbage_. The name brought back a bad memory and a nightmare, and he recalled the moment when the dream guide had disappeared and he had been left alone, at the mercy of the venomous shadows of bad dreams and secret fears. Could it be? She did not leave him in doubt for long.

"Charity Burbage," she said, "was my aunt and my godmother."

Snape was able to place her now: a quiet, hard-working Hufflepuff, tolerably good at Potions, who had never tried to attract anyone's attention in her student years. He did not need Legilimency to guess her untold thoughts. She had recognized Charity in his dream. She had seen her die, too, and that was the reason why the magic had been broken. At first, he felt something akin to anger most of all. What was he supposed to say? Oh, well, if he was to live, he could expect more meetings of this sort. He should be prepared next time.

"She never really resigned, did she?" the healer asked, and Snape wished she left him alone.

"Of course … not," he muttered.

"I realize it was only a dream," she continued slowly, "but do you know anything about what happened in reality? If she appeared in your dream-"

"That dream," he whispered hoarsely, "evoked a memory … quite … precisely... There isn't … much more … to tell."

Silence.

"I'm not interrogating you," Healer Burbage said finally. "You have already spoken more than you were allowed to."

_Fine_, he thought. At least she did not expect him to explain. How could he explain himself to every single witch or wizard who had lost a loved one in the war? Potter had disclosed the circumstances of Dumbledore's death. But Potter had not been able to talk about further details of his job – and Potter could not know about Charity anyway. But even if he had, Healer Burbage had not been there – she had been with Madam Pomfrey looking after the injured.

So what was she thinking of him? Perhaps – if she _had_ heard Potter's version about Dumbledore's death – she considered him a skilful turncoat trying to secure his own survival. That was what a lot of people were likely to conclude anyway – many others would flatly refuse to believe Potter's explanation regarding him and Dumbledore.

In the suffocating quiet of the ward, the healer opened a window, and fresh night air came into the room, bringing the scent of trees in blossom. Life. There was life outside. For others. To achieve _that_ had been his best hope - he could not complain. His not exactly flawless reputation was just one of many sacrifices, and it should not hurt more than the rest.

She did not leave the window, and Snape was staring at her back with an uncomfortable feeling. She was so different from Madam Pomfrey. Not having any other occupation, perhaps his spy reflexes were at work, as he observed and compared the two healers around him. Madam Pomfrey had experience – _she_ did not. She could be a good healer, and she was certainly a conscientious one, but she was too young to have significant experience or a real, long-standing routine.

Even the way they touched him was different. He found himself very sensitive to these differences: Being touched several times a day by a fellow human introduced him to a range of new stimuli, which he began realizing as he was leaving behind the most critical stage of his illness. Madam Pomfrey's strong, self-confident touch left no doubt that what was a horrible new experience to him was all in a day's work for her, and it made so many mortifying moments somewhat more bearable. When Healer Burbage touched him, however, she seemed to be afraid that she might cause pain or that the patient might break, although her hands were as light as the wings of a butterfly. As she tended to his wound or helped him in other ways, the inevitable physical contact with her made him feel self-conscious and embarrassed.

But he remembered that it was the very same way _he_ had touched every single cauldron, every single potion ingredient when _he_ had been a beginner. Back then, he had made a point of brewing only perfect potions. Later he _knew_ that the potion was going to be perfect – the knowledge was all in his hands. Healer Burbage did not yet know whether she was doing her job perfectly – but she tried hard.

"Healer Burbage," Snape whispered.

Very slowly, she turned towards him again.

"How can I help you?"

He wished his wound started bleeding or that his temperature went up again just to have an easy reason to call her back.

"You … are … crying," he groaned.

"I'm sorry," she replied.

"Don't … apologise."

She stepped back to him, taking out her wand to measure the patient's temperature. He pushed the wand away with his hand.

"I could… not … save …her," he said with a sore throat. "No one … could …have ... But Dumble...dore … left me … a … job ..."

"I loved her," she said simply. "She was like a second mother to me. We kept hoping she was alive perhaps … but such a horrible death …"

Snape could almost hear Charity begging him for help. He had not given her as much as a glance of sympathy. He had not even allowed himself to _feel_ anything … not then and there.

"I had to … become … Headmaster," he breathed. "Many … o - thers … could … have …s-suffered … the same …-"

The words seemed to be choking him as he was trying to finish the sentence. Soon he was struggling for air. She helped him sit up, and kept him in a sitting position, while murmuring an incantation. Snape tasted blood in his mouth. He thought he was going to throw up, but he merely coughed, and more blood came from his wounded throat. She repeated the spell several times; then she brought him a few drops of potion. He coughed painfully, but the worst was over; and gradually the rhythm of his breathing grew normal.

"It's all right now," she said, as the patient relaxed against the pillow. "But this is not the time for long speeches yet. With this kind of wound, you must be more careful. Much more careful."

He was unable to answer – he could not tell her how useless it felt to be careful, how tiresome it was to be constantly reminded that he needed to rest. He was used to recovering from illnesses and injuries (including the one caused by Hagrid's three-headed pet) without professional help; even if occasionally he had asked Madam Pomfrey's advice. He had gone through dangerous tasks and done jobs of responsibility with no one to worry about his safety, although he could have met a gruesome end any day. He had been prepared to suffer pain and humiliation, even death, at the hands of the enemy; but landing in a situation where kind, merciful souls kept telling him to hold his tongue and to be good and careful lest he might hurt himself, as though he was a child - _that_ had been beyond his imagination.

"You're cold," she said, and brought him an extra blanket, since the room had cooled down considerably. She closed the window. She stayed in the ward with him, leaving only for short intervals to quickly check on the sleeping other patients. Only one candle was alight, and she kept herself occupied in various ways in the background, but Snape knew she was watching over him.

If only his desperate explanation had received some sort of answer! _Not the time for long speeches_ ... indeed ... _She_ could have responded - _she_ was perfectly able to speak. Perhaps he should not have offered her any explanation at all. It was at least probable that Healer Burbage would have treated _any_ patient with similar care and that she was able to more or less put aside her own feelings while a patient's life was in peril. That did not mean she could understand why he had not lifted a finger to save Charity Burbage – or that she believed what he had said – or that she was interested in his reasons at all.

Healer Burbage was fiddling with some potion phials, which made a low, clattering sound.

Snape made a strong resolution never again to engage in similar attempts to make anyone understand the nature – or the importance – of his secret duty. They could not understand. No one who had not tried it could understand - and he did not want to speak about it. He did not want to think about it.

To change his position in the bed was still quite a job. He did it several times, but he did not feel any more comfortable. He coughed a little. The clattering of the potion phials stopped. Snape could not get rid of the image of Charity Burbage just before her death. Occlumency might help ... It would not do to fall asleep with this haunting memory on his mind. The clattering started again.

"I thought you were sleeping," said the calm healer voice a few seconds later. "Is anything the matter?"

He shook his head. She was standing by his bed, handing a goblet to him.

Despite his rebellious mood, he took a sip. It was the usual potion, but not only that¸ and he just barely had time to register the difference. She took the goblet back from him, as he fell into a quiet, dreamless sleep.

He slept until the pain in his neck was strong enough to wake him up even though the effect of the sleeping draught had not completely worn off yet. He pressed the bandage against the wound. It was dawning already. He thought he was alone, but suddenly Healer Burbage materialized out of the dim light. He must tell her he would rather not get addicted to sleeping draughts. He must watch his goblet the next time. The sleep had been good though – and he wanted more of it.

He woke up very soon again (the room had hardly got brighter), and this time he was really alone. Healer Burbage was probably handing out early morning potions to her other patients. Madam Pomfrey could not be expected to arrive for a while yet.

He tried to sit up. He was holding on to the bed, and the exercise was difficult, but he did not give up. Finally he was sitting, but he was not satisfied with this achievement. He glanced at the small table beside his bed. There was the flask that Potter had brought back, and it occurred to him that it should be kept in a safer place. But there were other things on the table that captured his attention as well.

His wand … If anything, that was a clear sign of trust. The first thing a wizard suspected of breaking the law could expect was that his wand would be taken away. He bent closer and reached for the wand, when he noticed that others of his possessions were on the small table, too. Every small item, in fact, that he had had in his pockets on the day the Dark Lord had nearly killed him. Just next to his wand, there was a folded piece of letter paper, inside which another piece of paper had to be. He grabbed the letter page, and felt the torn photograph inside. Potter must have seen it when he had placed the flask on the table. Anyone could see it…

He took his wand, and directed it at one of the tubes attached to his arm. He removed the tubes one by one. Gaining self-confidence from holding a wand as well as from the fact that his magic was apparently working, he slid off the bed, and stood on trembling legs like a baby learning to walk.

It was time to loosen his dependence on others. On the small table, there was also a potion phial that was his. It contained a potion that once or twice he had used to keep himself awake and his mind clear when he had to work without sleep for a long time. He had put the phial into his pocket after realizing that Potter was in the castle. He had taken a drop later, after being summoned by the Dark Lord. Perhaps the potion had helped him stay alive long enough to be rescued. It had the power to extract and utilize the last bit of energy of anyone who drank it – one had to pay for it with complete exhaustion in the end; but it could be useful in certain situations.

Like this one.

He would have plenty of time to rest afterwards.

It would be perfect if he could combine the Energy Extracting Elixir with Strengthening Solution; but he had to make do with what was available. He took a painful gulp, feeling his limbs fill with vigour at once. Who would have thought he possessed so much hidden strength yet?

How was he going to use the opportunity? There were no urgent tasks to carry out. He had always been on a tight schedule in the past years; but now his job was over, and Hogwarts was in the care of others. In truth, he had never felt so superfluous in his life.

But he would still grab the chance to look after his own needs at least. He reached for the flask Potter had brought, opened it, and put his memories back into his head. This operation took some time. Then he picked up the letter with the photo. He needed a lockable drawer... With a few steps, he reached the fireplace, where he saw the Floo Powder on the mantelpiece...

He emerged from the green flames in his dungeon room, blinking rapidly. He rubbed his eyes. The hospital pyjamas were covered with a layer of greyish black. He sneezed. The fireplace was in need of a thorough cleaning. What were house-elves doing these days?

He found his room as he had left it. Recently, the most crucial object in it had been the desk. His other desk, in the Headmaster's office, had been used for official purposes - this one contained everything he had wanted to keep secret. Dust was uniformly thick everywhere on the wooden surface - but he did not mind that at all. From the first day of his headmastership, this desk had been out of bounds for house-elves, and he had not yet had the opportunity to change his orders.

It took him several seconds to find the secret drawer. It was nearly empty, because he had used it as a last resort only. The best hiding place for secrets had always been his mind, and tangible documents were safest if they did not even exist; therefore he had destroyed every object that could have betrayed him whenever it had been possible.

He did not have to worry about the Dark Lord any more, and yet, he had something to hide. His fingers were gripping the letter with the picture - his prize, the ultimate reward for what he had done, the only comfort in the months of deepest loneliness. It had not been wise to carry them around, perhaps, but he had secret pockets in his robes, too.

He unfolded the letter and glanced at the photo. Lily was gazing back at him with a serious, pensive, almost sad expression. In vain he was hoping to catch her smiling. What revenge could be longer and more terrible than that of the dead?

That was enough. He put the picture and the letter into the drawer. He felt the touch of leather, and slowly he pulled out a leather-bound notebook from a corner.

* * *

><p>Irene finished her early morning visit to each ward. She was tired and she longed to sit down and rest. Still, just to be sure, she would check on the Professor once more. That bleeding in his throat had been dangerous. She had given him the sleeping draught out of pity - he had looked miserable – but for her, it meant she had to stay with him and be absolutely vigilant all night. Had the bleeding started again, he might have got choked to death before noticing anything. Now he was probably safe (several hours had passed without any bleeding) – but still.<p>

She opened the door of the ward quietly – and stared at the empty bed. The wounded, helpless patient was nowhere in sight. She stepped inside the room with alarm, and her attention was caught by the sound of the shower coming from the bathroom adjacent to the ward. Surely the professor could not be strong enough ... But she saw that the patient's wand was missing, too, and that the small potion phial, which was also his property, was standing on the very edge of the table now, though Irene remembered that it had been in the centre of the table, together with his other personal belongings.

The shower was turned off. Astounded, she took the potion phial into her hands to examine its contents. Pensively, she gaped at the liquid, wondering if she should believe the explanation it offered. Would a Hogwarts professor be reckless enough to act on such an ill-advised, crazy idea? Her meditations were interrupted by a loud thud, and she wheeled round, dropping the phial onto the table.

* * *

><p>Everything had seemed to go so well. He had come out of the fireplace looking as though he had been sweeping the chimney, but he had had no doubt that he possessed enough strength yet to take a quick shower. He had very nearly been right. He was already stepping out of the shower when he realized he was running out of time. Not bothering to dry himself, he seized a hospital bathrobe hanging within reach and donned it.<p>

He had used the Energy Extracting Elixir before, but he had never experienced what it was like to reach the very limits of his strength before having a chance to rest. In other words, he had never miscalculated his time and his remaining energy in such a horrible way. He fell noisily against the wall, looking for something to grab and knowing there was nothing to save him from falling onto the slippery tiles as his legs could not support him any more.

There was – not _something_, but _someone_ to save him.

"Lean on me, Professor … Careful now… I'll Summon a chair for you."

He sank into the chair, angry with himself. Water was dripping from his hair. His wand was on the floor, near the healer's feet.

"I'll manage ... Only… need … time."

But she did not hurry to leave him alone.

"I thought you were a man of great self-discipline," she said sharply, forgetting her usual sickbed-tone. She cast a drying spell so strong that the bathrobe he was wearing became almost hot.

With no chance to retort verbally, he responded with a dark glance only. But she had the upper hand in every respect, and she did not seem to mind his glance.

"When you have just survived a potentially fatal injury," she continued lecturing him, "how can you take such an enormous risk? You must realize how dangerous that potion could be for someone in _your_ condition."

Her question would have been easy to answer if he had been able to add the necessary tone and emphasis. It was not recovery he was seeking – all he wanted was to put an end to the present situation, either way. Naturally, she did not expect him to reply - she waved her wand instead, so that the chair lifted a few inches above the floor and smoothly floated with him back to the bed, where a clean pair of pyjamas was waiting for him already.

He did not feel grateful in the least. He was too old to take a scolding from her ...or from anyone. Those days were gone with Dumbledore's death. Not even the Portrait had lectured or reproached him ever. (Not that he _liked_ the Portrait any more for this.) Resentfully, he tried to ignore her as much as his current position made it possible. She was bound to notice.

"I'll help you get dressed," she said, starting with an impatient shrug, but eventually returning to her official healer-tone. "Just a minute."

She directed her wand at him, and Snape's face stiffened into a bitter grimace. Suddenly the stern and intimidating Hogwarts professor and daredevil double agent, who had had the nerve to hoodwink the Dark Lord, vanished, and he was nothing more than a bullied teenager at the mercy of his tormentors' wands, and he almost expected to hear the roaring laughter all around.

Irene raised her wand – but she could not help lowering it again. She had chosen the quick (though almost brutally abrupt) magical way of helping the patient get dressed so they both could get it over with soon and without further ado; but his expression frightened her. It reflected something more and something worse than simple embarrassment. She put her wand away.

"Professor Snape," she said anxiously.

He buried his face in his hands (were his fingers really trembling?), then, with enormous effort, he straightened his back again and looked up at her wearily.

What he had just experienced was not new to him. Flashbacks of this kind had been triggered before - among other things a mere glance at Harry Potter used to make him relive the worst of his memories connected with James and Lily Potter. He had fought against them as well as he could – a teacher _had to be able_ to meet a student's eye without going to pieces. His well-tried method was exercising complete and unquestioned control. Without that - this was where he ended up.

Though she was puzzled, Irene composed her features, and reached for the patient's hands. The bathrobe would do for the moment. She helped him into the bed with the greatest possible discretion, and put the tubes back into their places one by one.

Impassively, Snape let her proceed with her job. He turned his head away as though trying to pretend that all this was happening to someone else, not to him. The nutrients and the other potions were flowing into his veins again.

Later, she found a magazine left in the ward by some other patient, and she gave it to him. It was an old issue of the Quibbler, which Snape was not interested in, but he did not refuse the gesture.

"If you go on like this," the healer said, trying to hit a lighter, but not offensively light tone, "Madam Pomfrey will sack me. She thinks you are a wonderfully cooperating patient."

"Feel free to … lay the blame on me," he whispered, although he would have preferred to ask her not to mention the incident to Madam Pomfrey.

But she was not likely to make such a promise, and he knew that the request would endanger what little had remained of his dignity.


	6. Gryffindors and Slytherins

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 6**

_Gryffindors and Slytherins_

He dozed off several times during the morning – there was not much more for him do, as his strength was returning extremely slowly. Naturally, as a potions expert, he knew that the Energy Extracting Elixir was for generally healthy people only, but he had disregarded this principle as though it had not applied to him. It did apply, and another very bad day was the price to pay.

Madam Pomfrey was horrified when she found out about the 'relapse'. Snape was once more forced to listen to the well-known warnings. As compensation, Madam Pomfrey reminded him that he would soon be able to properly drink and eat again. She made it sound as though a great prize was within arm's reach.

By late afternoon he had started to feel somewhat better – but his mood was the same, unchanging bad mood. He was oppressed by memories he did not want to remember, and Occlumency failed him. It was another manifestation of weakness, and as the end of the day was approaching, his impatience with this weakness intensified, and yet, there was nothing he could do about it. Madam Pomfrey cast worried looks in his direction, shaking her head. Finally, she could not stand it any more.

"Professor, you'd better be prepared," she said. "Try for a little more cheerful face, or you will frighten your visitor off."

As Madam Pomfrey left, Minerva McGonagall entered (not exactly the sort of person who could be 'frightened off' by a saturnine look). She stared at Snape for a minute as though she had been ordered to keep silent as well; and in vain she tried to appear composed later - her eyes had already betrayed her shock at seeing his condition.

Snape waited in convenient silence for her to start the one-sided conversation. Even if he was no more considered an enemy, it was a serious question whether the old relationship between them could survive the strain the past year had put on it. Her last word to him had pierced him like an arrow dipped in venom. It had been worse than the deadly spells she had fired at him. He could not even explain why it was important, but Snape dreaded the moment when Minerva spoke to him - he felt that a single false note or one badly chosen word would be proof that something had irreparably broken between them.

She sat on the usual chair next to his bed; her gaze quickly swept his surroundings then lingered on him again.

"All right, I admit it," she began in the tone that she used when she greeted the freshly arrived first-year students. "I was wrong. You _are _a very brave man after all."

Involuntarily, Snape's lips curled into a twisted, ironic smile, acknowledged by a strange twinkle in her eyes.

"But I still don't understand," she continued in the same tone, "why I wasn't allowed to know about anything, why I couldn't be trusted enough to share the burden of your mission. I realize you cannot answer me now, Severus, but as soon as you have recovered, I want a real conversation with you."

_You are not an actress, Minerva,_ Snape thought in a silent reply to her question. _You may be brave, intelligent and loyal, but only the youngest of students think you are mysterious. Everyone else can read your face like a book; and the truth could have been betrayed by an unguarded glance. A mere shadow of suspicion could have prevented me from doing anything for Hogwarts unless I gave some further proof of my loyalty to _him_ – and you would not have wanted that, would you? What would you have done differently in this past year if you had known the truth? You wouldn't have hated me perhaps – but your opinion about me was irrelevant with regard to the plan. _

"When I attacked you," she said passionately, "Harry Potter was right there with me, under his Invisibility Cloak. Of course, I thought you wanted to hand him over to … Voldemort… Oh, Severus… if I had been aware … you could have spoken to him, you could have helped him right then. You needn't have been a spy any more. You needn't have answered Voldemort's summons… You could have stayed in the castle to fight."

_Or I could have gone to the Dark Lord all the same to try and kill his snake, and the result might not have been much different. But I wanted to tell you that night, right before you and your colleagues chased me away from this castle. I thought the time had come to tell you – but you didn't listen. I overestimated your patience with me. I still don't know how I could have done better._

"The thing is," she said, and Snape saw her eyes fill with tears, "and that's what I told Albus, as well, - his portrait, I mean – I don't agree that anyone should be allowed to shoulder such a burden alone."

_Too much would have __been risked if you had shared that burden with me. It had to be mine alone. Dumbledore never doubted my strength. _

Minerva wiped her eyes.

"If you had died," she said, "I'd never have found peace … remembering what I had ... shouted to you the last time…"

_You were not the only one__,_ Snape thought. _Potter, too. You all pronounced me a coward._

Minerva's word had hurt him almost as much as Potter's, although he had had a whole year to get accustomed to the universal hostility surrounding him. He almost enjoyed imagining the remorse he could have left them with – if he had _indeed_ died in the Shrieking Shack. At least they would have learned what it was like. _Ah… but they_ _would have got over it all too quickly. They would not have felt it long enough to make it worth dying for. _

His lips were curling upwards again, which did not escape Minerva's keen observation. She eagerly took the opportunity to change the topic.

"Well, I must not … _upset_ you, Severus; Madam Pomfrey has forbidden it. And I suppose you are interested in what's going on at Hogwarts at the moment. There's hard work in progress. The castle must be rebuilt, and as you can perhaps guess, we, teachers, can do the most effective work in this field. All that magic … We discover some mystery almost every day… We miss your expertise very much. But you will be with us before the work is quite over. Some of the students help, too… like Neville Longbottom. Pomona is very fortunate to have him at hand. They have almost finished the renovation of the greenhouses. Do you know that it was Neville who killed that large snake?"

Her face lit up as she announced this additional Gryffindor glory. She was extremely proud of the little lion cubs; for lion cubs they were to her all, never mind the occasional canine ones, and even vermin, in their ranks. Snape wondered if he would ever again be in a position to tease her about her house … or about Quidditch.

"Outstanding courage!" she declared in an elated voice.

_Or at least, _thought Snape, _Longbottom has exceeded all my expectations._

He would save this one for a better occasion.

Shortly, Minerva had to go. As she rose, Snape saw something in her hands. It looked like a present wrapped in green wrapping paper. She put it on the table.

"Don't try to guess what it is," she said. "_Light_ reading for once, funny and intelligent. _77 Magical Sights of the World_ – lots of fabulous photos, too."

Snape frowned.

_Do you want to send me on __a round-the-world trip?_

"You will like it, I'm sure."

_Or do you jus__t want to make me see how wonderful this world is? Oh, come on, Minerva…_

She turned back from the door.

"I'm counting on that conversation, Severus. Do get well soon."

She left, and when she was out of the ward, she wiped her eyes once more.

Minerva's visit lifted the dark cloud that had seemed to be hanging over him; and he was beginning to feel less gloomy. He was alive, after all, and the war was won. The boy was alive, too, and Minerva had acknowledged him to be a … true colleague? Or a brother-in-arms? The word 'friend' was far too intimate to describe the relationship between them. He had no friends. He used to have Lily, but he had lost her for ever; and later he had had Dumbledore, but Dumbledore had not needed him as a friend, only as an ally who could be safely depended upon.

At night, when an improbable silence fell on the Hospital Wing, and only a candle and the whiteness emanating from Healer Burbage lighted up the darkened ward, Snape could not have been more awake. The silence and the darkness made him tense with attention. He was listening to every sound he could hear, and he was mentally following the healer's every movement – including the ones he could only guess. He had not slept yet when – in due course – she examined and dressed his wound. His senses were electrified as her casual touch gave him the already familiar stimulus to self-consciousness.

Even though he did not realize it, life was claiming him back.

* * *

><p>Madam Pomfrey apparently gave up her policy of no visits, and to Snape's surprise, the visitors kept coming – though not more than one at a time.<p>

The next visitor after Minerva was – Hagrid. He did not stay long – he must have felt out of place in the ward; and he really could not be expected to spend ten full minutes entertaining Snape on his own. After clumsily greeting him (Hagrid remained standing, towering above Snape in a very awkward way), he pulled a large object out of his huge robes.

"This is fer yeh, Headmaster," he said, holding the heavy-looking thing dangerously above Snape's head.

It was a plant - a young flutterby bush, judging by its permanent shaking and quivering - planted in a container most similar to an extra large enamelled teapot, not exactly a new one. The enamel was in some places peeling, and the original flowery pattern was mostly covered by what seemed to be magical graffiti, _decorating_ the teapot.

Snape gestured towards the table, and Hagrid put down the present, which was probably the most bizarre one Snape had ever been given.

"Ev'ry kid," Hagrid explained, "yeh sen ter do detention in the fores' had tea with me, an' we did a bit o' chattin', an' they all signed me teapot with their wands. A lot o' kids, a lot o' signatures … I should've known yeh were... followin' Professor Dumbledore's orders-"

Hagrid took a huge handkerchief from one of his pockets and blew his nose. Snape silently accepted the present, and equally silently refused the idea that Hagrid 'should've known' what his true motivation was. If anything, _that_ would have jeopardized the plan… But no, it had not been so easy to discover what he had wanted to hide – whatever Madam Pomfrey said.

* * *

><p>"Would you like some sleeping draught?" Healer Burbage asked at night, wondering if her patient was insomniac.<p>

_No way._

"Would you like to sit by the window and look out?"

He was not up to walking that far.

"I'll help you."

Snape accepted her help, and soon he was sitting in an armchair by the open window.

"Beautiful isn't it?"

The view was indeed beautiful: The dark of the Forbidden Forest in the background, the lake reflecting the light of the clear night sky, the fragrance of the late spring brought by the wind… An owl flew past the window. He could not remember the last time he had had a chance to stop to admire the beauty of Hogwarts, but he had never had a truer home - even though he had not always felt truly at home there.

"I'm glad I've had a chance to see this again," she said, standing beside him by the window. "I will miss it."

He threw her a quizzical glance, and she answered at once.

"I'm leaving soon. Madam Pomfrey will not need my help any more. In a few days, you will be the only patient here. I'm only staying while your wound requires frequent treatment day and night, since otherwise Madam Pomfrey would get very little rest."

"What ... will you … do?"

He had no particular reason to ask this question - but she knew disproportionately much about him, and it did not feel right to let her disappear without attempting to redress the balance. Experience had taught him the power of information.

"I don't know," she replied. "I must find a job."

"I thought ... you worked for … St. ... Mungo's."

"I did," she said slowly. "I was sacked, and I've been without a job for several months."

"Why?" he breathed, looking at her with surprise.

Healer Burbage slightly blushed.

"I told a patient to shut up. I shouldn't have... But I had no more patience with her."

She noticed the little smirk in the corner of the professor's lips. Snape was curious to hear what a patient could do to make her lose her temper.

"She was a patient with a lot of political power and influence. I was out of my job an hour after offending her."

"Who ... was ... she?"

"A Ministry witch. She had been in charge of the Muggle-born trials. They never told us what had really happened; only that she had fainted, and, upon coming to, she had found herself alone with a group of angry Dementors."

"They ... should have ... kissed her."

"How can you say that?" she asked with a look of reproof. "She was in very bad shape when she managed to get rid of them. She spent months in St. Mungo's."

"Her name?"

Irene frowned.

"Healers mustn't impart personal information about patients."

"You were ... sacked."

She was silent for a minute.

"I've heard you were attacked by your colleagues," she said at last, "before the battle."

Snape neither confirmed nor denied the information.

"Yet, you remained loyal to Hogwarts."

"That was ... different."

So she knew about that incident, too. He would have preferred her not to; but her voice carried a tone of respect, and she could only repeat what she had heard from others. It was true that the Headmaster of Hogwarts - the Death Eater and cold-blooded murderer - had been chased out of the school... But _Severus Snape_ had had another, more important job, from which no one could have sacked him while he was alive.

He peered into the darkness. It was not so dark after all. There were millions of stars, and he could see the crescent of the moon casting its pale, silvery light over the lake.

* * *

><p>The next day, he had yet another visitor – Horace Slughorn. It was quite clear that Minerva (or perhaps Madam Pomfrey) had organized these visits to cheer him up; but when Slughorn gave him a box of crystallized pineapples, it really seemed that the world was coming to an end soon.<p>

"I see you can't eat, my dear boy, but one of these days you will," Slughorn began, casting a last, longing look at the box.

"Ten minutes," said Madam Pomfrey as she was leaving the ward.

"More like half an hour, I should say," Slughorn boomed, "I'm sorry, Madam Pomfrey, but I can't promise to be quicker. But I won't let Severus speak."

Even a completely healthy wizard would have found it difficult to interrupt the old Slytherin. Slughorn talked and talked.

He started with a detailed description of Nagini's venom and of how he had felt reaching into the dead snake's mouth. This topic interested Snape. Nagini's venom was a very rare substance, and he was almost sure that Slughorn had managed to extract more of it than what he had handed over to the staff of St. Mungo's. When he got better, he would let Slughorn know about this suspicion. Perhaps he could blackmail him into sharing the sample.

Then Slughorn poured a wealth of new information on him. Snape learned that Kingsley Shacklebolt was the new Minister of Magic, that several students had died in the battle, that many Death Eaters had been captured, that Bellatrix Lestrange had been killed by Miss Weasley's mother, who had been protecting her daughter; and he received a much more detailed account of the duel between the Dark Lord and the boy who lived than before.

"I almost forgot… when Harry gave that superb speech at the beginning of the duel… he told us all about you. Even You-Know-Who learned the truth before he died. Did you know?"

Snape shook his head. Potter had not mentioned the speech to him. The idea that the Dark Lord had died realizing that _he_ had been working against him was … attractive. What would Bellatrix have said if she had lived to hear that? _I told you so, my Lord_… Ha!

"I used to think I knew you, my boy, but you keep surprising me. I remember you were friends back then, but Harry has put it so splendidly… '_He loved her for nearly all of his life… he was Dumbledore's spy from the moment you threatened her…'_ I would never have guessed Harry could know such things about you… The two of you seemed so distant…"

It took Snape a while to fully grasp the meaning of Slughorn's words. His old Potions teacher was gazing at him with a sickeningly sentimental expression, muttering under his breath so that Snape caught only a portion of what he said.

"But who could see her and not love her … my favourite student of all times… died so young…"

There was only one way for this whole thing to make sense. Snape might have roared his displeasure at Slughorn and the world at large if he had been physically able to. As it was, any sound he gave was disguised by the immediately following coughing fit, causing Madam Pomfrey to rush in. That he was shaking all over was attributed to the violent cough, and he did not try to enlighten either of them. Slughorn insisted on staying a few more minutes, and Snape was too absorbed in anger to protest.

Potter had exposed his secret in front of hundreds of people - the secret he had given Potter alone. Potter might have viewed the memories by himself, but he had a rather cavalier attitude to keeping confidential information. The fact that Potter had believed Snape dead was no excuse. It was one thing to reveal that he had worked for Dumbledore and had killed Dumbledore on Dumbledore's own orders; but disclosing the greatest secret of his life – that he had done everything for Lily, that he had _loved_ her – that was not simply unnecessary – it was outrageous, unforgivable.

Of course, it was the same Potter who had dived into others' memories without bothering to ask for permission … who had seized the unexpected opportunity to peep into the Dark Lord's dark mind all too eagerly… who had taken the time in the middle of a battle to watch the memories of someone he had hated for such a long time. Perhaps it had been predictable - only he had never imagined the boy would publicly couple his mother's name with a name that was yet to be cleared of infamous crimes ... with the name of Severus Snape. In an even remotely similar situation, _he_ would have treated the memory of his dead mother with greater deference, although Eileen Snape could not hold a candle to Lily Potter.

"Ah, Severus, I must be tiring you."

Slughorn raised his voice, and Snape realized that his visitor was still there; but he could not pretend to be interested. With another round of get-well wishes and actually _patting Snape's hand_ (the small humiliations resulting from his illness never seemed to end), Slughorn left at last.

Madam Pomfrey stuck her head into the ward to see if everything was all right, but did not come in for another hour, by which time Snape had resolved to move to a faraway desert island or at least into the middle of the Forbidden Forest if he ever left the Hospital Wing on his feet again.

Madam Pomfrey examined him, gave him another dose of his potion; then with a mysterious expression, she brought him a small goblet of beef tea, which Snape managed to drink without feeling any serious pain in his throat.

"Excellent," said the matron. "Soon you will not need these tubes. Isn't that good news, Professor?"

But all through this, Snape remained indifferent, and Madam Pomfrey shook her head.

At night, he was sitting by the open window for a long time. He admitted to himself that he had, after all, been looking forward to the day when he could return to the world beyond the walls of the small ward, but now he did not know how he would be able to face it all.

If he had not already tried his luck with the Energy Extracting Elixir, he might have been tempted to drink it at once and see how far his legs could take him on this very night. But he knew he could be glad if his strength lasted until he reached the lake... He shuddered. Any such stupidity would only make the gossip about him juicier.

He thought with horror of the currently quiet and dark school grounds being filled with students giggling at the idea that their least attractive and least popular teacher had loved, for all his life, a woman who belonged to another man. Then there were all those adults who could still remember the relationship between him and James Potter… Even strangers would delight in hearing his story in various distorted forms, because his story was linked to the story of the Chosen One, the much admired hero who had defeated the Dark Lord.

And what about the Prophecy, the source of his guilt, the tale of his most abominable action ever? Was that common knowledge, too? With his long-guarded secrets revealed, it would be like walking about naked in the world, subject to contempt and ridicule, no matter what Minerva and others were trying to make him believe while he had no other source of information.

The thought left an echo in his mind. _Other source of information..._

"Aren't you tired yet?" a quiet voice asked. "It is past midnight."

Healer Burbage had stepped behind him, apparently of the opinion that he _should be_ tired already.

His gaze met hers. Could he trust her? He had had no reason yet to regret turning down St. Mungo's for the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. But could he trust anyone? According to Madam Pomfrey, Healer Burbage had not heard Potter's speech - at any rate, not directly.

"Healer Burbage ... have you got … a Prophet? I haven't seen a newspaper … lately."

"No, not at the moment," she answered. "And I'm sorry, but ... Madam Pomfrey doesn't approve of certain patients reading the paper. It might cause …" She hesitated, as though she was not sure what. "Well, there's been a war."

"I've … noticed," he muttered, touching his neck.

She smiled.

"I'll talk to her in the morning. Perhaps I can persuade her. I'm afraid she finds your mood too unstable ... too prone to abrupt changes. Monitoring visitors is easier than filtering out the more depressing news of a newspaper."

_Nonsense_.

He turned back to the window, seemingly watching the scenery, but seeing - instead of the calm, quiet present - scenes of the past that had taken place on those very grounds and people who had once walked or roamed the old paths, all full of life, people who were never to return to the school again.

She gave him a second blanket and left the ward. He hardly noticed.


	7. The World Outside

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter ****7**

_The World Outside_

"Get him a book," Madam Pomfrey suggested. "Madam Pince will help you choose something that will interest Professor Snape. Or he could read _certain_ magazines – but not the Prophet. Not yet."

"But that's what he wants," said Irene. "He's bored and he wants to know what's happening."

"That's why he has visitors," Madam Pomfrey replied. "At least I can tell them to be tactful. The Prophet would upset him. It would hamper his recovery."

"Try to understand his situation, Irene," said the Headmistress, who had come to the Hospital Wing to say goodbye to the patients leaving that day. "Until quite recently, Professor Snape was thought to be a Death Eater but at least a collaborator with the Dark Side. Harry revealed his true allegiance finally, and those of us who have seen him day by day in this school-year and knew him before are now beginning to put together the pieces and see how everything fits. But there are many even here who don't give much thought to the matter – they simply accept something that Harry Potter, the hero of the war, told them. Others will be hard to convince. The sceptics may easily think Severus is using some clever trick to get himself out of trouble as so many Death Eaters did after the first war."

McGonagall took off her glasses to clean them, and Irene saw the troubled look in her eyes.

"While the causal relationship is quite clear to those who are familiar with the details, the public – and the Wizengamot – may demand tangible proof before believing that Headmaster Snape was truly loyal, that he is in fact a hero, not a murderer. But whatever such proof Harry Potter has, I must tell you I have not seen it; and nor do I think anyone besides Harry has. Still … if Severus has asked for a newspaper … and you deny it to him … he will be clever enough to make guesses … I don't think we can avoid upsetting him now."

She glanced at Madam Pomfrey, who was silent for a while, but finally nodded.

Snape received a copy of the latest issue of the Daily Prophet. The first few pages were dedicated to Potter-related news.

_Harry Potter to Become an Auror …Harry Potter, Guest of Honour at Ministry Reception …_

He turned another page and stared at the photographs of two familiar faces.

_In Memoriam: In our column commemorating the victims of the war, today we remember a very special couple. Remus and Nymphadora Lupin…_

So they were dead, too. And they had left behind a child … a baby. Like the Potters. He remembered Lupin flying in front of him, and he was reminded of George Weasley and the accident. James Potter's last living friend had survived the chase, but only to be killed hardly ten months later. As for his wife, what was a woman who had so recently given birth to a child doing in battle in the first place?

_Andromeda Tonks, who had lost her husband, daughter and son-in-law in the war, is determined to bring up her surviving grandson, who comprises now her whole family. _

Andromeda Tonks … she would be Bellatrix and Narcissa'a sister. Had Lupin's wife been killed by Bellatrix? From Bellatrix, his thoughts jumped to Charity Burbage, and from Charity to Healer Burbage, who still did not seem to consider him responsible for her aunt's death. Although … who could tell what she was thinking behind that gentle reserve of hers? Legilimency was clearly not an option this time.

Next page …

_Death Eater Trials to Begin_

_While many suspected Death Eaters are still on the run, those who have already been arrested will go on trial within weeks …_

… _The aurors have compiled an extensive list of suspects – see the 'WANTED' column on the last page. To the question whether the ex-headmaster of Hogwarts, Severus Snape, should be included in the list of suspects, the Ministry spokeswizard does not give a definite answer._

"_Severus Snape's alleged Death Eater activities have been seriously questioned, and for the moment it is not clear whether he should be named as a suspect at all."_

_(Prof. Severus Snape became Hogwarts Headmaster after the fall of Rufus Scrimgeour's Ministry, and had earlier been accused of murdering his predecessor, Prof. Albus Dumbledore, the most outspoken opponent of the Dark Side for decades. The rumours about his childhood relationship with Harry Potter's parents will be discussed in 'The Boy Who Lived', our soon-to-be-published special edition featuring the biography of the Chosen One.) _

_Simultaneously with the Death Eater trials, an investigation into collaboration with the Dark Regime is starting at the Ministry with the purpose of deciding which employees were secret Death Eaters, Imperiused victims or willing collaborators. _

The Wizarding World was not going to embrace him with open arms. Madam Pomfrey must have thought he would be badly shaken by the lingering doubts about his loyalty. In fact, the doubts were much less startling than his colleagues' willingness to believe Potter's testimony on his behalf, and he would not have traded their renewed trust for an Order of Merlin from the Ministry. The impending publication of rumours about his relationship with Potter's parents, however, confirmed his worst fears. Why couldn't they keep to _Potter's_ biography?

He read the rest of the Prophet, too, though most of the remaining news seemed trivial. But at least he could hide his face behind the newspaper, knowing that Madam Pomfrey would not approve of his current mood.

Apparently to further annoy him, the Bloody Baron floated into the ward later, and began babbling about unrequited love, as though the two of them had been mysteriously united by some shared misfortune. Since his first day as a teacher at Hogwarts, he had never had such a difficult time getting rid of a ghost.

In the afternoon, he found an opportunity to give vent to his fury. When Minerva visited him, he burst into a hissed rant about gossiping wizards, who poked their noses into other people's business. Minerva, always quick on the uptake, soon figured out what Snape was talking about. She attempted to defend Potter's behaviour saying how dramatic and how unforgettable it had been when – to everyone's amazement – Potter had flung the perplexing truth about Snape in the Dark Lord's face.

"I heard nothing that could show you in a bad light, Severus. Don't you realize Harry wanted Voldemort to understand that he had been defeated by _love_ in more ways than one?"

That was, however, somewhat too direct for Snape. He did not discuss Lily – or _love_! - with anyone. Therefore he gave no reply, and Minerva waited patiently for a while.

"Did you find the piece of news you were looking for?" she asked finally.

Snape was thinking of the terrible promise the Prophet had made. He pressed his lips tightly together. Minerva leaned closer to him.

"Hogwarts will support you, Severus," she said earnestly. "Don't forget that."

Hogwarts could hardly prevent the Daily Prophet from writing about his secret past. Snape was about to mention that, when he realized Minerva was talking about the speculations concerning his role in the war.

"Madam Pomfrey tried to spare you some worry until you were completely healthy," she continued.

Snape could not help rolling his eyes. He was not a child, and he did not want to leave the Hospital Wing unprepared for the world outside. There was no point in deluding himself. A life like his would not become normal from one day to another.

"But perhaps it is not so bad after all. Not for you. Your conscience is clear, and justice is on your side. I think it's time you started making new plans."

New plans? His plans did not extend beyond recovery. But having something to occupy himself with would probably help.

"Is ... George Weasley ... alive?" Snape asked with a seemingly abrupt change of topic.

Minerva appeared a little disconcerted.

"Yes, George is alive… It was poor Fred who fell in battle. Naturally, George is devastated. They all are."

"I didn't know," Snape muttered.

He noticed the growing concern in Minerva's expression – she could not see the string of continuity in his thoughts, but he did not explain.

"Could you bring me ... something?" he asked. "From my … room…"

"Let's hope it's not something banned by Madam Pomfrey," she answered. "It was difficult enough to persuade her to let you read the Prophet."

"It's a notebook," he said. "I left it on my desk."

* * *

><p>In the evening, Irene found the professor reading and making notes into a leather-bound book. She thought he was certainly getting better, and Madam Pomfrey would shortly be able to look after her single patient alone. She would have to find a job soon. She did not look forward to the days of idleness.<p>

The next day, Snape was freed from the tubes, as he was now able to drink the potions with the nutrients as well as his medications. He was encouraged to get up several times a day and take 'walks' in the ward. His speech was getting better, too, although Madam Pomfrey cautioned him against 'excess talking'.

In the course of the coming days, his recovery accelerated, and he started to speak, to eat and to walk anew. He was on lighter medications now. His wound was healing slowly, but it was healing nevertheless; and the painkiller on it lasted longer. He spent hours a day studying the notebook Minerva had brought him. It interested him more than the Prophet, which he was completely free to read now. It kept his mind occupied, and - hopefully - not in an entirely useless way.

Yet, impatient as he was to leave the Hospital Wing and to be as independent as only healthy people could be, he was struggling with the unlikely juxtaposition of two opposing but equally revolting images that seemed to be reserved for him in the world outside: The rejected admirer of the Chosen One's mother or a traitor and murderer, depending on whether Potter's testimony regarding him was accepted or refused. It was all about Potter, not him. With the secrets and lies of his past, _he_ might never be able to regain true credibility. He had been ideally suited for the role of a dark wizard. He doubted he would fit the role he would be expected to play next.

He made a habit of watching the Hogwarts panorama at night. Always at night, never during the day. Healer Burbage sometimes spent a few minutes standing behind his back and doing the same. Snape did not mind her - he was used to her presence. She had learned to sense it when he needed quiet or solitude, and she always respected those needs. It was only on her last night at Hogwarts that she disturbed the silence around him by talking.

"I wonder," she said shyly and so quietly that Snape did not at once realize she was speaking, "if you would mind ... if you could answer-"

Snape jerked his head up.

"What?" he said, turning away from the view.

"A question."

Healer Burbage was apparently embarrassed; almost frightened. What had happened to her? Suddenly, he understood. He did not feel quite ready for that.

"Why did they kill her?"

Snape cast an incredulous glance at her. Was she being serious?

"She never fought ... she never joined the Order of the Phoenix," she explained. "I doubt she ever knew how to defend herself."

"She can't have had much chance to fight back anyway," Snape put in.

"It was so easy to hurt her ... What was their point?"

"Charity was an unwavering defender of Muggles and Muggle-borns," Snape answered. "You must know that. She never hid her opinion ... and the Dark Lord didn't need that much reason really. She was easy prey, too. He killed her because he could. It was a demonstration of principles... so to speak."

"Professor Snape," she began again, after a brief silence.

"Yes?"

"Before she died ... did she ... did she say anything?"

Snape's expression froze. Was she tormenting him on purpose?

"I thought you'd heard what she had said," he snapped irritably.

Charity's last words had been in his nightmare. It was bad enough to remember on his own, he did not need to be reminded by others.

"No, not then," Irene said hurriedly, "I mean in captivity ... Did she talk to anyone?"

Snape stared at her hard.

"You mean whether she sent a ... last message or something?"

She flushed.

"I didn't guard her," he said gruffly. "If she had a chance to talk to someone, it was a filthy little rat called Peter Pettigrew - not the sort _sensible_ people would entrust their last secrets to. He's dead anyway, if my information is correct."

"I see."

"Were you hoping for a specific message?" Snape inquired bluntly. "Like the number of her Gringotts vault or the outlines of her last lesson plan?"

"No!" she replied indignantly. "I only wish I knew what her thoughts were in that horrible place... Did she really mean to die for her principles? It's difficult to accept the way her life ended, you know."

With an impulsive wand movement, she sent a set of empty potion bottles hurtling onto a shelf. Snape thought of Lily. Had _she_ meant to die for her son or had it just happened? And he? He had survived by chance only. Had he _meant _to die in the Shrieking Shack, facing the Dark Lord?

"I cannot tell you," he said very slowly, measuring every word. "But sometimes it is enough if you just want to remain yourself. You may bend your will to circumstances many times, and yet, you may have that bit of yourself inside that contains the things you will not compromise. When that part is challenged, you cling to it and bear the consequences. You do not want to die or to suffer; you simply want to be yourself."

She pondered his words for a while.

"But could that bring any comfort or hope in the end?" she asked at last, unable to keep her thoughts entirely to herself.

Snape was tapping his fingers on the arms of the armchair.

"I don't know. I think -"

He broke off abruptly.

"What do you think?"

She knew she should not bother a patient with depressing thoughts, but she could not help it. Professor Snape had seen Charity die, and she might never have another chance to speak with him about her. The questions had been burning on her lips ever since he had regained consciousness.

"Charity's dead, and I think _you_ need comfort now."

She gaped at him. She had not expected him to notice and, what was more, to mention, how she was stricken with grief. If she had, she would not have dared to bring up the topic. But his words of sympathy warmed her heart all the more for being unexpected.

"Charity disappeared nearly a year ago," she whispered, "but her death was confirmed only when I met you. I can't think of her without thinking of how she died. I feel guilty whenever I enjoy something because I suddenly ... remember her. This is more difficult than it was when I lost my grandparents, who died naturally when their time was over. I'm sure it will take longer now before I can remember her the way she lived, not the way she died."

Snape thought she was right. It could very well take longer. But he said nothing.

"Do you know ... what happened to her _afterwards_?"

It seemed Healer Burbage would never run out of questions.

"Afterwards?" Snape's gaze was fixed on a spot on the windowsill. "Why, they ... buried her ... somewhere. Secretly."

"Can't you tell me where?"

He shook his head, but he still did not look at her. He hated to tell lies.

* * *

><p>Potter had the nerve to visit him again. Snape was glowering at the boy without a word; but he gazed back at Snape with the old, familiar defiance. Snape's bitterness was increased by the realization that the boy would never be afraid of him any more.<p>

"I know, Professor, you are angry with me," Potter began. "What I told Riddle ... what the others heard, too ... was part of a deeper set of connections. I tried to make him see how Dumbledore's plan had worked... and how weak he had been when he had thought himself powerful and strong. I gave him a last chance. "

"Last ... What?"

The question burst out of him despite his intention to remain meaningfully silent.

"I told him to try for some remorse. He did not take my advice... But it stung him when he realized you had been loyal to Dumbledore all along. Riddle deserved that, didn't he? I also wanted everyone not only to know but also to believe what your real role in the war had been."

"You could have left your mother out of it," Snape growled. "She would not want her name to be linked to mine in ... gossip columns."

This was a genuine concern, if not the only one he felt. It was easier to emphasize the part that hurt Lily than his own personal grievance. Potter was staring at the floor, and Snape wondered whether he was going to argue.

Finally Potter looked up and straight into Snape's eyes.

"I believe," he said quietly, "my mum wouldn't mind ... she would understand. But you may know better, because I never really knew her, as you did."

Snape did not reply. Would Lily mind? He wished he could tell.

"Professor, I'd like to ask you a favour. I'll understand if you'd rather not ... but it would mean a great deal to me, so I'll ask anyway."

Snape was eyeing the boy suspiciously. Harry Potter requesting a favour - of _him_?

"Professor Snape, you're the only one I can ask to tell me about ... my mother."

Perhaps in answer to Snape's bewildered expression, Potter attempted an explanation.

"Petunia never talked to me about her, and I don't think she ever will. Sirius and Remus ... they were always discussing my dad. Dumbledore had only ever told me a few fairly general things ... Professor Slughorn and Hagrid remember her, but they can't have known her as well as you did."

_In other words_, Snape thought, _a large number of people could have talked to you about Lily; but I'm still the first one you have ever asked. _ _You may have been a bit too preoccupied with your dear father, Potter._

"You need information for your biography, I suppose," he said dryly.

Potter flushed. Snape could see he was angry and offended.

"I need it for myself," he replied coldly. "It has nothing to do with anything else ... and I'm not after any secrets! She was my mum, and I don't remember her. I wish I knew more about her ... I wish I had memories of her."

Potter got up from his chair, agitated, and perhaps ready to leave. But he did not leave yet.

Snape hesitated. Giving Potter memories ... no. Most definitely no. Never again. Memories were best kept in their natural place. _Speaking_ about Lily, however, meant a degree of involvement he was unprepared for.

"Listen, Potter," he said very reluctantly. "I've got a photo of her. Technically it's yours. It was in your godfather's house. I -"

He stopped. He could not honestly say he had been guarding the photo for Potter. He was not going to justify himself to the boy who already knew more of the reason than what was good for him.

But Lily's son did not trade memories for a photo.

"I want you to keep it," Potter said at once, sitting down again. "I've got pictures of my mum. I received them from Hagrid years ago. What I don't have is memories of her - that's why I need _your_ memories. Again."

This sounded too much like a bribe, yet it was Snape's only picture of Lily. It had obviously been a mistake to mention it. He cleared his throat.

"What exactly ... do you want to know?"

"Everything you can tell me about her childhood... the house and the neighbourhood where she lived ... my grandparents - you met them, didn't you?"

Snape nodded.

"The Dursleys hardly ever mentioned anyone of the Evans family. Perhaps Petunia didn't get along with her parents."

Snape raised his head.

"Perhaps," he said.

He could have told the boy more – Petunia might have been jealous of Lily, but she must have also tried to forget where she had come from after marrying a well-to-do Muggle…. News had travelled quickly in the town, and Snape's mother had often gone to the Muggle marketplace. That was how Snape had first heard about Lily's engagement – his mother had never suspected how that piece of information had affected her son. Then again, if his mother had lived longer, he might have been informed of Lily's pregnancy early on… As things had stood, it had been the Dark Lord who had first informed him… and it had been too late then.

"So would you be willing to ... to tell me about her?" Potter repeated.

The boy had no idea what he was asking. Snape had a feeling of déjà vu, as though something like that had happened before. In some nightmare, no doubt - but it made him feel obliged to agree. It would be difficult to refuse. He owed it to him.

He opened his mouth to speak without knowing what word he would say first. He never found it out. The door of the ward opened and three people entered. Snape recognized Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was accompanied by two wizards in auror-uniforms. Snape stiffened. Potter was visibly taken aback.

"Severus," Shacklebolt said without ceremony, "you must come with us."

Snape stared at the former Order-member, who was now - as he recalled - the Minister of Magic.

"What if I don't want to?" he asked sharply. "Or maybe I can't?"

"You are well enough to come with us," Shacklebolt answered, "and you have no choice. Get ready."

With a gesture of his hand, he sent the two aurors out of the room.

"I suppose I should feel honoured," Snape said icily. "Not all Death Eaters are arrested by the Minister personally."

"Excellent observation. Hurry up."

"What's going on here?" shouted the boy, standing now and facing the Minister. "You can't arrest him!"

"I can and I must," Shacklebolt replied. "There are facts we can't ignore. I'm sorry, Harry, but there are sufficient grounds to warrant an investigation."

"Investigate then!" Potter snapped. "Just don't arrest him! I can give you all the evidence you want!"

"How much more time do you think you need, Severus?" the Minister asked; then he turned back to Potter. "There is no other way."

Snape's gaze slid from Shacklebolt's calm expression to Potter's fierce glare, as Potter's hand slipped into his pocket. _Could he really_? But the look of disbelief in Snape's eyes lasted hardly a moment. The reflex to protect the boy was faster than thought.

"That will do, Harry," he said.

Potter's jaw dropped open. Snape himself was surprised by the same thing that had stunned the boy - and it was not so much the arrest or Snape's willingness to obey, but the fact that - for the first time in his life - he had called Lily's son by the name the boy's mother had intended him to be called.


	8. At the Ministry

__Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling.__

****Too Deep for the Healing****

****Chapter 8****

__At the Ministry__

"I've expected this visit," said the Minister of Magic, as he rose and hurried to shake hands with his guests and to offer them seats around the coffee table, where a teapot and several teacups had already been prepared.

Professor McGonagall returned the handshake warmly, but Harry Potter's manner was coldness itself.

"Why did you arrest him?" Harry began without taking as much as a glance at the teapot. "You took part in the battle... you were there when I explained the truth about him ... why didn't you talk to me first?"

"As Minister of Magic, I don't think I neglected any of my duties when I made a decision without first consulting you, Harry," said Kingsley Shacklebolt, but his manner was not unkind. "As your friend, and a member of the wizarding community who is very thankful to you, however, I'm quite ready to explain my standpoint to you."

Kingsley sat back comfortably on his chair as his guests sat down too.

"To start with, I believe you, Harry. You have been right on so many points and, of course, I realize you knew and still know so much more about Dumbledore's plan than I or anyone else in the Order ever did that I must conclude you cannot be wrong on this very important point. If Dumbledore ordered Snape to kill him and Snape gave you crucial help in the war, then the role he has played in these recent events must be evaluated anew."

"Snape was loyal to Dumbledore and to our cause all the time," Harry declared. "He helped us defeat Riddle! He saved lives whenever it was possible!"

Kingsley nodded.

"If it was so, there must be proof. I'm only the Minister, and whatever I, personally, think of him, the decision about his fate is not mine to make. It is the Wizengamot that Snape must convince, and they will want __tangible evidence__."

"But why did you arrest him in the first place?" Harry demanded. "Why didn't you just ask me to testify on his behalf -"

"As Dumbledore did after the first war," said Kingsley. "You want to vouch for him, don't you?"

"I'm not Dumbledore," Harry answered gravely, "but I defeated Riddle, and I do know a few things about what happened ... more than the Wizengamot."

"Of course," Kingsley agreed, "still, I'm convinced that it would be better for Snape, and infinitely better for our society, if the Wizengamot acknowledged the truth about him in the course of an open trial."

Kingsley stood up and began walking up and down in his office, his voice heated with passion.

"After the official acquittal, no one could accuse or suspect him again; but even if Snape would rather keep quiet about the affair, we simply cannot afford it. It would undermine our justice system in a critical moment. What was he accused of after the first war? He was accused of having joined the Death Eaters, but no further crimes were held against him. Dumbledore vouched that he had turned his back on Voldemort voluntarily and had fought on our side, and that was it! There wasn't much to prove on either side. Today, however, every single Death Eater we have caught will swear that Snape was Voldemort's right hand man. You see? I'm not dragging him into this... he's up to his neck in it already! His name will pop up again and again. Besides, it is no secret who appointed him as Headmaster of Hogwarts."

"But he took the job because Dumbledore had wanted him to," Harry put in.

"And this is what he must prove. There is also the murder case. Not even you deny that Snape killed Dumbledore. It was against the law, Harry, and it must be investigated. That Dumbledore as his commander ordered him to do it is a mitigating circumstance, which should be taken into account by the Wizengamot. It is also important that by committing this crime, he was ultimately serving the ..."

"... the greater good," Harry said, taking advantage of the Minister's momentary pause.

Kingsley stared at Harry hard.

"Whatever good he meant to serve, the evidence must be presented in front of the Wizengamot. The council may acquit the perpetrator due to the mitigating circumstances, but we cannot simply overlook a murder case. We all know how many Death Eaters were allowed to walk free after the first war. I will see to it that this mistake will not be repeated."

"In the case of Severus," Minerva said calmly, "there is no such danger."

"Right," Kingsley replied, "but it is equally important that our people be absolutely sure of it. I want them to trust our justice system; therefore it must be completely transparent. Otherwise we could expect distrust and suspicion, even some shocking revelations concerning well-respected wizards maybe decades after the war. I want our society to come clean with all of it __now__. Questions must be answered __now__. I cannot make an exception. Not even for the sake of Severus Snape."

"I understand your reasoning," said Minerva. "But how about making an exception for the sake of a seriously ill wizard? He could have been placed under house arrest at Hogwarts."

"Where is he?" Harry asked.

"Not in Azkaban, don't worry," Kingsley answered. "While I'm the Minister, no one will be taken to Azkaban without a trial. I don't have to explain how important that is, do I, Harry? He's in the Ministry in the greatest possible comfort that anyone in his status can get - on the basis of his illness, of course. I have given orders that Madam Pomfrey must be allowed to visit him as often as she deems it necessary, provided she observes our basic security regulations. I believe she is with him at the moment. You can visit him, too - but not more than ... two visitors at a time. All in all, I don't think he would be much better off if he had stayed at Hogwarts while awaiting his trial."

* * *

><p>Snape stood with his arms folded on his chest as Minerva recounted their discussion with Shacklebolt. When she finished, he raised his eyebrows.<p>

"I don't know what he means by tangible evidence. I have no written contracts or orders from Dumbledore. I don't have direct witnesses - we let no one in on the plan that concerned me. You can ask Dumbledore's portrait or the other portraits in the circular office, but other than that - you can only look at what I did."

"The problem is," said Minerva gingerly, "that your actions were intentionally ambiguous. I'm afraid several interpretations are possible, and we need something to convince the Wizengamot that our version is the true version."

"But it's easy," Harry cut in. "Your memories, Sir ... there is the tangible evidence for everyone to see - just put them into the Pensieve! Dumbledore ordering you to kill him and other memories ... if that's not enough, you've got your Patronus, too! But the memories should be enough," he added hastily, when Snape's face darkened.

"My memories," Snape said curtly, "are staying in my head."

The two visitors exchanged a troubled glance.

* * *

><p>Harry had already had more than his fair share of difficult tasks, but the job in hand was fundamentally different from anything he had done before: Never in his life had he attempted (really attempted, not only wished, like with regard to Sirius) to prove that someone was <em><em>not<em>_ a dark wizard. He had some experience of the opposite, but __this__ was completely new. The task found him just before the beginning of his official auror career, and the greatest obstacle standing in the way of success was the accused himself.

He wished he could do the job with the help of Ron and Hermione, like so often before. But Ron could not be expected to help much this time (the Weasleys were going through a difficult period), and Hermione, whose long-established interest in wizard law was well-known to her friends, had not yet returned from Australia with her parents.

Having to depend on Snape was a complication. To start with, Snape refused to use the best evidence he had - the memories. Harry kept hoping Professor McGonagall would eventually be able to make her colleague change his mind, but the Headmistress was far too busy at Hogwarts to spend enough time with Snape. She did help to gather alternative evidence and find witnesses though.

Harry often visited Snape. He felt it to be his duty to follow every little detail, to be familiar with every possible argument for and against the defence. But it was easy to see the professor did not share his opinion. Snape's replies to Harry's questions were brief though straightforward, and most of the time he behaved like a passive spectator watching a rather boring theatre play. It was only on occasion that Harry noticed the signs of emotion - like a sudden flash in his eyes, an involuntary hand movement or a vein pulsing rapidly in his temple. One thing Harry soon had to realize: The more he or Professor McGonagall tried to make Snape see sense and show his memories to the Wizengamot, the more aloof Snape became.

Finally Harry changed his strategy; and he began to spend less time talking to Snape and more time discovering and tracking down potential witnesses on his own.

* * *

><p>Snape was escorted to the Minister's office by an auror, but entered alone. He stopped a few steps from the door and directed his well-practised fathomless stare at Shacklebolt. He had been interrogated on the very first day in the Auror Headquarters, where he had had to answer the aurors' questions concerning the crimes he had committed as a Death Eater. Kingsley Shacklebolt had been present although he had remained silent for the full length of the hour that the interrogation lasted. Apparently, he had his own questions now.<p>

"Sit down, Severus," Shacklebolt said, pointing at a chair by his desk.

Snape knew a command when he heard one. He and Shacklebolt had been in the Order of the Phoenix together, but he would never stoop to appealing to this connection; and as he obeyed, his every gesture indicated that he was a prisoner __ordered__ to sit down rather than anything else. It was a perfect way to express contempt - he knew how to apply the nuances that made all the difference. Snape could have trained actors.

"I'd like to hear the full story from you, Severus," Shacklebolt said grimly. "I'm quite disposed to believe you; but I must know everything you have to say about your role in the war."

"If you don't think you know my story yet," Snape replied slowly, "how can you say you are disposed to believe me'? How can you be certain I will not deceive you - or that I will tell you anything at all?"

"If the truth is to your advantage, why would you keep it secret?" Shacklebolt asked.

"If you already know where the truth lies, what more could I tell you?"

The Minister picked up an object from his desk, and began turning it around between his fingers. It was Snape's wand. Snape's eyes opened wide, and he felt a strong temptation to attack. Kingsley Shacklebolt pretended not to notice Snape's anger.

"__Harry is the best hope we have.__ __Trust him.__ These were Dumbledore's last words to me. Therefore I trust Harry quite as much as I would trust Dumbledore; and let's face it; the boy has already rewarded my trust splendidly. When I say I am disposed to believe you, I say I believe what Harry Potter says, and he says you have fought on our side all along. As far as it goes, that is enough for Kingsley Shacklebolt, personally. If, however, the Minister of Magic is about to take up your cause, you must share all the details with him."

"What do you mean by 'taking up my cause'?" asked Snape, his gaze still fixed on his wand.

"I can't declare you guilty or innocent. I have a say in the council's decision, but I'm not the council. My vote together with my personal conviction and strong arguments that I can use in your favour could be valuable assets though, as you no doubt realize. You can count on me - but I need to hear the full truth from you."

"And why would you speak up in my favour?" Snape demanded, a look of distrust in his eyes.

"I'm only interested in the truth," Shacklebolt answered, raising his voice a little. "Here and now, our job is to punish the guilty and to keep the innocent safe. If you are on our side, you must want the same. The Wizengamot will not reach a verdict based on Harry's words alone. If you want to get __this__ back, you must do something for it. "

He waved Snape's wand around in his hand.

"My worthy colleagues have already asked you every possible question that a Death Eater can be asked. I am now ready to listen to what you __want __to say."

Snape let out a growl.

"While you are collecting your thoughts," Shacklebolt continued, "I can summarize the tale that your wand will tell the Wizengamot. All in all, it would not be a very bad tale. For a supposed Death Eater and former Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, you have performed relatively few instances of dark magic with it ... recently. There are some fine instances of healing magic even ... and the Patronus Charm - who would have thought it? However, this wand has still performed some of the darkest of dark magic - this is the wand that killed Dumbledore; and that is a pivotal point in the story."

"I do not deny it," Snape said dourly.

It was extremely difficult to talk about Dumbledore's great request and the ultimate role he had had to play. He forced himself to recount the events – and everything he knew about Dumbledore's plan - in the fewest possible words and in the simplest possible way. When he finished, it almost seemed he had been going through it in reality again.

He wished he could leave, but the interrogation was not over yet.

"Harry is trying to collect evidence of your secret tasks. But it's difficult to find anything decisive simply because you did such a great job as a double agent."

"We've got Dumbledore's portrait," Snape suggested.

"Portraits cannot appear in court as witnesses. Of course, Minerva can come forward and tell the Wizengamot what the portraits have told her. But the direct evidence will immediately become circumstantial. Since you were Headmaster of Hogwarts, people may wonder if you had the chance to manipulate the portraits. A single question in this delicate situation could be enough to undermine the credibility of the evidence."

Shacklebolt was pacing the room around Snape.

"There may have been lives you secretly saved ... perhaps you can explain how, but when those obscure deeds are weighed against George Weasley's cut-off ear-"

"It was an accident!"

"Prove it," said Shacklebolt darkly. "Now, your Patronus -"

Snape cut him short.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"In Harry's story, a certain Patronus has an important role."

"My Patronus - and anything else connected with Lily Potter," Snape snarled, "- must be kept out of this affair!"

"It's been in the papers, Severus, don't be childish," replied Shacklebolt. "But your Patronus can be left out - when collaborators like Dolores Umbridge are capable of producing Patronuses, one does not know any more what to think. Then there's Harry's testimony..."

So they had got back to that. First Dumbledore had vouched for him; now it could be Harry Potter ... Snape would have preferred Dumbledore again.

"If we leave out the Patronus story, we have Harry's statement that you gave him Dumbledore's message, which ultimately enabled him to defeat Voldemort. The problem is that as soon as one starts asking questions, it turns out that the gist of the message was that Harry had to let Voldemort kill him. Since everyone realizes how much Voldemort desired the same ... I'm not sure this is the right way to convince the sceptics."

Shacklebolt stopped in front of Snape.

"We must not forget the evidence provided by captured Death Eaters. Several of them have sworn you betrayed the Order's plan to Voldemort when we rescued Harry from Privet Drive last summer. Their accounts support each other. You were not even supposed to know about the plan."

"I did. It was also Dumbledore's order."

"If I had not heard Harry say the same, I would never believe it. It will be … very hard to accept. All the aurors thought Harry must have misunderstood something or you were deliberately misleading him. It sounds too unlikely that Dumbledore would ever have played such a game with his people."

Snape's eyes narrowed. Shacklebolt seemed annoyed.

"That's precisely what makes your case so difficult. Dumbledore told me to trust Harry, and I trust Harry if I ever trusted Dumbledore. But Harry is telling me Dumbledore misused our trust, making me think I should not have trusted him so implicitly after all."

"The key to the mystery is simple," said Snape. "Nothing mattered when victory was at stake. I had to betray the plan because I had to keep the Dark Lord's trust, and he needed further and further proof. Dumbledore wanted me to sit in his chair after the fall of the Ministry, since someone had to watch over the next generation of wizards and witches. But I did not give the Dark Lord any crucial information."

"Only the exact time of the rescue mission."

"And what difference did it make?" Snape asked. "Secretly Death Eaters patrolled the area day and night. All that coming and going would have aroused their interest, and they would have alerted the Dark Lord long before you left the house with Potter. He travelled … extremely fast, and his most important goal was to capture Potter. There would have been a chase anyway. I only used the opportunity to gain some more influence with him. At the same time, I planted the idea of polyjuiced Potters in Mundungus Fletcher's head."

"Yes... you Confunded him. It would still be possible to get his real memory of your meeting if we could find him. Unfortunately, he has not been seen for months. For all we know, Mundungus may be dead. Harry will, of course, testify what you have just told me here is true. But what is his proof? Was he told any of this by Dumbledore? No. He watched your memories, and his testimony is based to a large extent on those memories! But no one else has seen those memories yet."

"They are ... private," Snape muttered, a headache gathering in his temple.

"Granted," said the Minister, looking directly into Snape's eyes. "They have been, until now. But what I've been trying to tell you comes down to this: The council must __see__ your memories if you want to make sure that they believe you."

"The council?"

"Yes, the council."

"How about a few journalists for transparency's sake? Or the audience so they could follow the show? Why not the whole wizarding world - you could sell tickets even!"

"Severus," Shacklebolt said soothingly, "you can select which ones to show -"

"None."

He glowered up at the Minister.

"Whatever I'd choose, 'the sceptics' could demand more... Or they might question the authenticity of the memories. I don't want such discussions. I will tell them what they need to hear, but I will not make a public spectacle of my memories. Not even for that stick that you are brandishing in front of my nose!"

* * *

><p>In Snape's opinion, he could have gone on trial any day. Since the beginning of his imprisonment, he had received enough advice for a lifetime, and he did not think any of it made any difference. He regarded Potter's apparent enthusiasm with something like jealousy, but he doubted that his chances could improve with time or prolonged preparation. The waiting was nearly driving him mad, and he alone knew what it took to keep some semblance of sanity in front of others.<p>

Madam Pomfrey, who watched over his recovery, seemed increasingly worried about his emotional state, and tried to persuade him to take potions that had nothing to do with the snakebite. Snape refused the suggestion. The next day, Madam Pomfrey did not arrive at her usual time.

Snape soon had a reason to miss her: While he had a supply of healing and strengthening potions, there was no way he could cast a painkilling charm without a wand. He tried to ignore the pain, but, after a while, it felt as though the snake had just bitten him again, and finally he was sitting slumped forward, experimenting with wandless magic; but the pain interfered with his concentration. He did not notice the jet of light flying towards him across the cell. He looked up only, his hand pressed against the bandage, when the pain ceased.

"Good afternoon, Professor," said Healer Burbage, lowering her wand after the Instant Painkilling Charm. "Madam Pomfrey is unable to see you today, and she sent me instead. I've only just heard you are here," she added. "I'm sorry."

Snape straightened up and nodded, by way of greeting.

"Madam Pomfrey asked me to apologise for her," she explained. "She would have come herself but something quite extraordinary happened… There is a giant in the forest ... did you know?"

"Hagrid's half-brother. It used to be a __huge__ secret ... for a while."

"Well, he's had an accident ... a broken toe. Madam Pomfrey is trying to fix it."

She stepped closer to him.

"Madam Pomfrey reserved the more interesting job for herself. This wound must be boringly familiar," he said, straining every nerve to suppress the funny feeling around his spine, as she took his hand, removed it from the bandage and undressed the wound.

"Not to me," she replied, the magic of her wand scanning his neck. "This wound has changed considerably since I last saw it."

"That must be some comfort. I'm glad to hear it."

She examined her wand carefully.

"As a matter of fact, Madam Pomfrey let me choose between the two jobs."

Snape's mouth twitched.

"You disappoint me. What an opportunity to miss... You don't get a giant patient every day."

"And a __friendly __giant, too ... as I hear," she said pointedly.

He threw her a surly look.

"Perhaps the guards and the security control gave you an alternative thrill."

She cast the usual spells and replaced the bandage with a new one.

"Are you insinuating that I go for soft options?" she asked wryly.

"Well, you chose __this__, when you could have chosen a giant's toe."

But he did not sound quite as sardonic as he had intended.

She chuckled.

"I did ... without a second's hesitation."

She scanned him with her wand once more very thoroughly.

"Any other pains or complaints?" she asked.

Snape glanced at her sideways.

"Do I look like someone with a reason to complain?"

"Perhaps not," she answered. "You helped the Light Side win. You conquered a very serious illness. You lost plenty of blood - and yet, you are alive. There is a lot of strength in you."

Snape watched her intently for several long moments. She did not drop her gaze in front of his.

"They want my memories," he said at last.

Healer Burbage heard the untold question behind the statement, and it made her shudder.


	9. The Art of Losing with Dignity

__Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling.__

****Too Deep for the Healing****

****Chapter 9****

__The Art of Losing with Dignity__

"Professor Snape -"

Harry Potter could not be sure whether his former teacher heard him. Snape was standing with his back against the wall in the Ministry cell that would be his 'home' for a few more days. His face was more inscrutable than ever; and his eyes once again reminded Harry of deep dark tunnels with no light at the end. He did not look at Harry, and he gave no sign that he could see or hear him.

"Professor Snape," Harry repeated.

Nothing happened, and Harry wished he had the courage to touch the man and shake him; but Snape seemed to be surrounded by an invisible and impenetrable wall. So Harry continued speaking.

"This is not the end yet. We will try again... All we need is new evidence and we can start again. I will not give up."

Still no reaction. Harry was getting desperate.

"I wish you had agreed to show them some of your memories," he said bitterly. "It would have been worth it if we could have avoided ... __this__."

Snape stirred at last. He took a step away from Harry, and turned his back as he spoke.

"Go away," he said in his old, stern, almost cruel voice. "I don't want anybody."

"All right," Harry replied, when the silence left by Snape's words grew thick like another line of solid brick wall. "But you must know you can change your mind. I'm still ready to do what I can to help you."

He waited another minute although he did not really expect Snape to answer. Then he turned around and left. Snape was finally alone.

He had no wish to talk to anyone. He had been forced to speak too much already. What had been difficult to tell Kingsley Shacklebolt was almost impossible to tell to all those people in that large room. It was quite an incredible story, he had to admit that. The Wizengamot must be a down-to-earth, realistic bunch, and their response could not have been more sober. Shacklebolt's performance as __advocatus diaboli__ at their tête-à-tête had been no exaggeration. Everything was happening exactly as the Minister had predicted.

The questions the council members had asked! The nerve with which they had tried to explore his life and his motivations - without having a clue of anything! Who could understand what it had been like? No one, not even Potter realized - or cared - how much he would like to deny, or to bury, what he had been before. Not only the Death Eater or the fake Death Eater even; but Dumbledore's man as well, the fool who had made impossible promises and had stood by his word until everything had collapsed around him.

Why had Dumbledore chosen __him__? Of course, Dumbledore could not have expected anyone else to undertake those tasks. Who else would have thought so little of his own (albeit blemished) reputation and relative peace of mind as to agree to play such a game with both? Normal people simply could not believe that it was possible. But Dumbledore had known __he__ would do it, because once, a long time ago, he had been stupid enough to bare his soul to Dumbledore.

Potter was wrong: The single good thing in this ignominious business was that he had __not__ shown them his memories. They would not have understood them. They would have doubted them. They simply lacked the imagination to accept them as true or just likely.

Panting, he pressed his forehead against the cool, white wall. Who was he trying to deceive? Was he not practising Occlumency every night, before falling asleep, to prevent dreams about the past? The truth was that he would not have been able to go through any of those memories with an audience around. His inability to cope would have been exposed, and it would have been worse than Azkaban. He might have been only an unwitting pawn, manipulated and sacrificed by the great mastermind; but he had wanted to survive the trial with dignity, whatever the cost.

* * *

><p>While Snape was standing silently, refusing to talk to Harry Potter, Irene was sitting in an office room of the Apothecary's in Diagon Alley. The position in the Apothecary's shop was not the job of her dreams, but she did not want to miss a chance. Being idle was getting on her nerves. She could not sleep well, and when she did sleep, she saw Charity die, exactly as she had seen her in Professor Snape's dream. The more often she saw this dream, the worse her reactions were becoming - for the initial emotions of shock, loss and rightful anger were joined by other feelings, which were getting stronger and stronger every time. She felt a different kind of anger, combined with shame and guilt, and these emotions stayed with her when she was awake. They frightened her because she did not know where they were coming from - and when she thought of a possible explanation, she did not dare to believe it.<p>

Therefore she was sitting at the job interview, one of several applicants, and the apothecary (a short, thin, bespectacled, elderly wizard) was testing her knowledge. So far he had seemed to be satisfied with her answers.

"I would like you to take a glance at these preparations," the apothecary said. "I want to see how quickly you can recognize them."

Seven small cauldrons, each closed by a lid, had been prepared for her. The first one was easy: It contained Pepperup Potion - she could not have been a healer if she had not been able to recognize that. The second one was a relatively rare type of cough potion. The other medical substances - Wolfsbane Potion and Murtlap Essence - caused her no problem either. Then she had to recognize Doxycide, which she had only ever seen as coming from the usual spray bottle, but she managed. She hesitated over the next one - the liquid was clear as water - but finally she said what she thought, and she was correct - it was indeed the Draught of Living Death.

She was stepping towards the last one, and the apothecary attentively lifted the lid before she was quite there. She halted, and smelled the air, which was suddenly filled with a familiar, pungent aroma.

"But this is coffee," she said before pondering anything. "Without sugar," she added.

She did not know why she thought that, but she was certain the coffee contained no sugar. The strong, pleasant, almost seductive aroma was intermingled with a touch of the fragrance of dittany, and with something else, which she would have described as the distant, heavy smell of wetland brought by the wind. But something was amiss. She was supposed to recognize potions, not to describe the aroma of the air. The cauldron would contain either coffee or an infusion of dittany, or maybe water, but not all of them.

In fact, it contained none of those. She stared at the cauldron, from which steam was coming in spirals; then she glanced at the wizard, who was standing with a sly smile by the treacherous potion of the mother-of-pearl colour. The trick was obvious now - but it was too late to realize it. Truth be told, it was small wonder she had made that mistake. Potions like that were outside her area of expertise.

Irene had never been so embarrassed in her life. This was clearly not a job for her. The interview continued, but her interest was lost, and her attention was superficial. She was thankful when she was allowed to leave at last - she wanted to be as far from Diagon Alley as she could.

She was going home, and yet suddenly she found herself at the gates of Hogwarts. She had not been planning this visit - it was only at the moment of Disapparation that she knew her destination. She had to go to Hogwarts to inquire about Professor Snape.

Harry Potter was in Professor McGonagall's office, analysing the trial and the failure, as Irene entered. She had met the hero of the Wizarding World once, a few weeks earlier, in the same office, and Harry seemed to recognize her. They told her to sit down and went on with their conversation so that Irene quickly learned the essence of what had happened: The council had found Professor Snape guilty of murder and had convicted him as a Death Eater.

"I must be jinxed," said Harry angrily. "No one ever believes me! It was the same when Riddle returned... but I hoped it would be different now that I'm known as the Chosen One, who had vanquished Riddle ... They don't even believe me when I say I could not have done it without Snape's help!"

"You did your best, Harry" said the Headmistress. "Don't blame yourself. I can't understand Severus. Why didn't he use the memory in which he received Dumbledore's order to kill him?"

She turned round to look at the portrait behind her desk. The old wizard in it was listening intently to the conversation.

"He didn't want to incriminate Draco," Harry fumed. "He had some nonsensical pretext for withholding every single memory that I suggested. He was keeping his secrets as though he was guilty! I was afraid his stubbornness would turn Kingsley against him, but Kingsley kept his word. Not that he achieved much."

"What exactly is the sentence?" Irene asked.

"Snape got the lighter type of punishment - thanks to the Minister's support. He doesn't have to go to Azkaban," Harry explained. "The worst of the Death Eaters are taken there, but those who have things in their favour and who were not Death Eaters, only willing collaborators, are going elsewhere."

"Where are they going?"

"They are exiled to a place where there will be guards and strict rules, but they can work for their living and can move around with relative freedom, only they must not leave the place... and they won't have wands, of course. They're supposed to be useful for society before they can return to it."

"How much time does he have to spend there?"

Harry frowned.

"He's been sentenced to fifteen years."

"Fifteen years among Death Eaters, collaborators and prison guards," Irene whispered, "in Professor Snape's condition..."

"And their surroundings won't be particularly nice either," said Harry. "There's a Muggle settlement nearby, but hardly anyone lives there. All we can hope is that circumstances will make Snape reconsider certain things. What is so bad about sharing a few memories with a few hundred people in comparison with wasting fifteen years of his life in exile?"

"Are you sure," asked Irene, "that he would be ready to face a world in which all his secrets have been disclosed?"

"What secrets does he still have?" Harry growled. "Everyone has heard about his Death Eater past. What remains to be revealed is the best of him!"

"Professor Snape may see it differently," Irene suggested.

"I reckon he does, but the logic of it is completely beyond me," Harry snapped.

"What Severus must remember is that his case will be re-examined if new evidence is found," McGonagall put in.

"I tried to impress that on him," Harry said. "I'm not sure how much he heard of it."

"I'll try to talk to him, too," McGonagall sighed. "Sooner or later he must appreciate that Hogwarts is with him ... that he isn't abandoned. When are they leaving?"

"In about a week," Harry answered. "We may not abandon him, but he won't know about it. Nor will __we__ know if he changes his mind in the near future. The convicts aren't allowed to have any contact with friends or family for six months. After that, letters or visits are possible, but the privilege can be withdrawn as a disciplinary measure."

"But you're an auror, Harry," said McGonagall. "I haven't even had the chance to congratulate you yet."

Harry gave a curt nod.

"Right now I should be hunting the Carrow bloke," he muttered. "And the way Snape turned me down today; I don't think my visits would be worth much anyway. I don't have any more ideas, but Hermione is coming home in a few days. Perhaps she'll think of a new way to prove the truth about Snape."

"Are you still determined to prove it?" Irene asked.

"Professor Dumbledore practically forced Snape to reveal his secrets to me," Harry replied. "He would never have done it if it had not been for the sake of his duty. I believe Professor Dumbledore intended me to help Snape clear his name. I will not abandon this job any more than Snape abandoned his."

He looked at the old wizard's portrait, and the portrait was nodding his agreement.

"But will he survive," Irene asked, "until you succeed?"

"Snape's tough," Harry answered slowly. "He's used to difficulties. And the best solution is in his hands ... or head. The memories."

__You may bend your will to circumstances many times, and yet you may have that bit of yourself inside that contains the things you will not compromise. When that part is challenged, you cling to it and bear the consequences. You do not want to die or to suffer; you simply want to be yourself__. Professor Snape's words came back to Irene suddenly.

"Perhaps there is something he guards ...," she mused. "It would explain why he is acting as though he was guilty... There is something he does not want to compromise... something more important than freedom or life. If that is the case, __suffering__ will not make him come round."

Harry Potter was thinking of Dumbledore standing up for disgusting, bad-tempered Morfin, imprisoned for a murder he had not committed. He was thinking of Sirius - innocent, and yet __feeling__ guilty - wasting away in Azkaban for the death of his dearest friend. He was thinking of Hagrid, exonerated after fifty years of injustice; and it struck him that Tom Riddle's legacy was living on, contaminating the very efforts to eliminate it.

"I wish I knew what to do," he said, ruffling his hair. "All I know is that he is not guilty, and it gives me a responsibility. I saw his memories."

__I know it, too__, Irene thought to herself. __I saw his dreams__.

* * *

><p>Anxiety was inevitable. The loss of control over his life and the prospect of a new, long-term, not yet tried ordeal could not be entirely dismissed as mere trifles in comparison with the danger the Dark Lord had earlier meant, although Snape made a few attempts at it. Occlumency was temporary help only. Yet, he did not want to spend his days in fear, and he kept reminding himself what he still had to lose was of very little value anyway. But that was yet another delusion, and deep-down, he knew it.<p>

His gaze fell on the flutterby bush he had received from Hagrid on a day that seemed to have been ages before. The plant had been brought to the Ministry by Minerva.

"It's rooted firmly in Hogwarts soil," Minerva had said, "from the Forbidden Forest. I thought you'd want it here."

Snape had passively let Minerva find a place for the plant in the cell, without indicating that he understood the symbolism.

Rooted firmly in Hogwarts soil - like him? Ridiculous. He was just being removed from Hogwarts; and the sooner he was able to forget his former life, the better he would adapt to the new one - if it could still be called a life.

His evening meal was brought in by an old guard. The man was about to leave when Snape called after him. He stopped.

"I have a question," said Snape.

The guard looked at him distrustfully.

"What is it?" he grunted.

"Do I have an obligation to accept visitors?" Snape asked.

"Official visitors, like aurors coming to question you, yes," the guard replied. "In the case of personal visits, if there's anyone you don't want to see, you can refuse to see them."

"I don't want to see anyone," Snape said. "No visitors at all."

"That's for tomorrow, isn't it?" the guard asked.

"This week," Snape answered.

The guard scrutinized Snape for a few seconds.

"Of all the prisoners here," he said gruffly, "you're visited by the nicest people by far. If I were you -"

"Do I have the right to refuse visitors or not?" Snape cut in.

The guard reached into his pocket and gave Snape a piece of parchment.

"Just fill in this form," he said, "and sign it; and no outside visitors will disturb your solitude while you're here."


	10. Wizards without Wands

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 10**

_Wizards without Wands_

They were transported by a large Ministry vehicle at night, when not many Muggles travelled on the roads. There were about fifty of them, accompanied by a group of morose guards. The guards rarely spoke, and when they did, those who were addressed had good reason to wish they had remained silent.

Most of the convicts were less prominent or recently joined Death Eaters, such as Gregory Goyle and Draco Malfoy, and collaborators, mainly from the Ministry. There were few women, but one of them was another old acquaintance: Alecto Carrow, the Death Eater who had succeeded Charity Burbage as Muggle Studies teacher - this time without her brother. Snape turned his head away in disgust. To his surprise, he also discovered Lucius Malfoy next to Draco. The wily old fox must have had some connections to speak up for him if he managed to stay out of Azkaban, where, in theory, he still had quite a few years to do from his previous sentence. While Draco (half-heartedly) tried to hide his fear and despair, Lucius looked unusually humble and haggard.

London had long been left behind, and they were travelling in complete darkness now. There were no man-made lights outside; the stars and the moon were hidden by the clouds. A sharp, strong wind was whistling, and the rain was beating down hard on the side and windows of the vehicle. They stopped suddenly, and Snape expected that they would get out, but the vehicle slowly started again, and, as the convicts realized with shouts of terror and shock, they were gradually sinking into something.

"Silence!" yelled one of the guards. "Or is there anyone who wants to follow us swimming?"

The threat was emphasized by wolfish, sinister grins on the faces of some of the guards, while the others remained grim. The darkness grew darker as the vehicle went underwater and proceeded slowly ahead with lots of stops and plaintive sounds, as though it did not like the substance it had to fight its way across.

Fear was almost tangible among the passengers. No one risked uttering a single word any more; but many wondered if they were to reach the other shore ever.

Finally, with a lot of hissing and splashing noises, the vehicle - still very slowly - emerged out of the water and continued its way on solid - though bumpy - ground. It was dawning already, and Snape, who was sitting by the rear window, looked back across the curtain of the rain to catch a glimpse of what they had left behind: a patch of thick, dark vegetation over a wet surface, whose full extent was hidden by dense mist stretching across the horizon.

Soon they stopped again. The door of the vehicle opened and the guards nearest the door jumped out. The convicts got out one by one, wands pointing at them from every direction. Snape glanced round in the early morning light. He saw run-down, ugly, Muggle-style buildings - small smaller, some bigger - scattered about a grey, bleak land. The air was cold and damp. Their boots squelched in the mud.

The convicts were received by several mackintosh-clad officers and some more guards, who organized them into disciplined lines out there in the rain (all of them were drenched to the skin when the guards were at last satisfied) and marched them to the largest building. There they read out their names, and every convict was assigned to a group under the command of a supervisor, who was assisted by several guards, and each convict received a backpack that contained their 'belongings', such as clothes (convict uniforms), bed linen, towels, a simple set of dishes, various household tools, some food and drink, and so on. Then they had to follow their supervisors.

Snape was sorted into the same group as the two Malfoys and the Goyle boy. He did not know the others - they must have been marginal supporters of the Dark Lord and Ministry collaborators. Shortly, their supervisor arrived and gestured for them to follow him.

Draco hissed indignantly, and nudged Goyle. Snape gaped after the red-haired young man walking ahead of them; but there was no time for hesitation, as the guards behind their backs ordered them to march. He would have preferred a supervisor who was a complete stranger. He would have preferred someone older - someone who had not been his student. But it was not a question of his choice - the supervisor was Percy Weasley.

They walked in the rain again, carrying their backpacks. They stopped by a row of small, shabby houses. Weasley led them into the first one, which, once they were inside, appeared quite cosy, well-furnished and large.

"This is my office," said Weasley, making a wide gesture with his hand. "You will have to come here with your problems, requests or complaints. Sit down. There."

Weasley pointed at a row of chairs alongside a wall. He sat into a comfortable office chair behind his desk.

"My name is Percival Weasley, in case any of you wondered."

Someone snorted, but Weasley ignored it.

"I am your supervisor, and you owe me absolute obedience in all matters. In return, I will look after your interests within the framework of our rules and regulations. I'll make decisions in questions of punishment, reward or disagreement."

"I will not obey a little rat like you, Weasley," said a tall, strong wizard in a loud, deep voice. "Why don't they send a respectable auror here?"

"That's not for you to decide, Runcorn," Weasley replied in a superior tone. "I enjoy the trust of the Minister of Magic. Changing your group is not possible in the first six months, and even afterwards you will need a sound reason if you want your request to be considered in the first place."

Runcorn did not answer, but kept muttering under his breath.

"I want to tell you what sort of life you can expect here," Weasley continued. "Each one of you will get a house to live in. As you see, the houses need renovation; and your first task will be to make them habitable for yourselves. For thirty days, that will be your only job."

"Without wands?" Draco cut in with disbelief.

"Without wands," Weasley nodded. "If Muggles can do it, you must be able, too. You will find everything you need near the office buildings. If you are not ready within a month, you may continue working on your houses in your free time later. In the meantime, you can find a communal kitchen and some communal bathrooms in the large building where you have been. For two months, the Ministry will provide you with food and other necessary things. After that, you will have to provide for yourselves, depending on the wages you earn."

After a long and boring speech, in which Weasley enumerated rules and prohibitions, the distribution of houses (huts) began. Snape got the one nearest to Weasley's office. He received a key as well - he was not supposed to lose it. It meant he could lock the door behind himself. Of course, anyone with a wand could enter easily; but at least he was able to shut out the other convicts.

He dropped the backpack on the floor and looked round. The inside of the hut was hardly better than the outside. Clearly no one had lived in it for many years. It was small and dark, too. Some basic items of furniture had been left piled upon each other in a corner.

The atmosphere was as far from anything he had got used to in Hogwarts as possible. No comfort, no library, no house elves, and hardly any magic. As Weasley had explained, they were allowed to possess only Class D magical items, such as medicines, harmless potion ingredients and herbs, as well as objects used for purposes of decoration.

What had remained from his earlier life was a few non-magical personal possessions, some bottles of medicine (painkiller and others) that Madam Pomfrey had prescribed and another bottle, in which he had, in the last moment, hidden a handful of Hogwarts soil from the pot of the flutterby bush he had received from Hagrid. It was a pathetically sentimental idea, which he now regretted, but he could not yet make the decision to throw the bottle away. It would not do to keep watching it though.

After some hesitation, he put the small bottle into a pocket of his winter cloak, which he later buried at the bottom of his wardrobe.

For neighbours, he would have the Malfoys and Goyle. Oh, well, he should not be choosy - he had put up with their sort earlier, too. And he had not always lived at Hogwarts. He had better forget the castle and recall the Muggle house in Spinner's End.

His parents' house had been old, and his father had never cared much for his home (or anything); therefore, as a teenage boy, he was obliged to look after the place when he was at home for holidays. They rarely had money to pay plumbers and electricians; and he had the trace on him, so he could not use magic ... at least not much. He could not count on his mother's declining magical power either. Consequently, he learned to do various manual jobs in the house, and, quite often, he managed fairly well. When he failed, his father used to taunt him, so he rather tried again and again, just to prove ... what had he wanted to prove?

After so many years, it was time to recall the long-forgotten methods. In this respect, he was luckier than most of the other convicts. Pureblood wizards seldom had experience of non-magical solutions to everyday problems.

The hut consisted of a single bedroom, a bathroom (with a tolerably working plumbing system) and a kitchen. Though it had been a Muggle house once, it was easy to discover the touch of wizards' hands (or more precisely, wands), because the electric wires had been removed. The Ministry took no chances with extreme Muggle practices that wizards did not understand. It was not likely that any of the convicts would complain about the lack of electricity anyway. (It was their wands that they really missed.) But a real Muggle would probably have laughed at their imitated "Muggle" lifestyle.

For Muggle technology, Snape had candles (with matches), a non-magical fireplace and a small wood cooker in the kitchen. He found the latter two ready for use, so he did not have to put his repairman skills to a very difficult test. The cooker seemed extremely old though, and it was rusty and dirty as well. Snape could not be accused of being insanely tidy, and he was generally more interested in the practical aspects than in the looks of his home, but anything he cooked on, in or with had to be in perfect working condition (it was a potioneer's habit), so he spent a whole day cleaning the cooker.

Focusing on the repairs kept his mind off other things in the coming days. The roof was leaking in several places, resulting (due to the frequent rains) in large mould patches on one of the walls; and the ceiling was in danger of caving in. Smaller problems were abundant; and in spite of the Muggle experience of his youth, Snape was not really good at his current tasks.

Once or twice he wondered what Madam Pomfrey would say if she saw what he was doing such a short time after recovering from his illness. Thanks to her and Healer Burbage, Snape was relatively well. He had stopped taking medications. His wound hurt sometimes, but the pain was endurable and did not last long – only it reminded him of his previous life just as he was struggling to banish all Hogwarts-related thoughts from his mind (including Madam Pomfrey's instruction that he should go back for a general check-up within three months). He tried as hard as he could to pretend he had no other things to think about but the condition of the miserable hut that was currently his shelter.

Perhaps for similar reasons, most of his neighbours were working hard as well. One night, Goyle tried to attack a guard and take his wand, but the guard was quicker. After that incident, Snape did not see Goyle for several days. Weasley, however, called the rest of them to his office and reminded them that trying to escape and attacking any of the personnel were not only hopeless attempts but also crimes that warranted very serious punishment, which could mean imprisonment, loss of certain privileges (like receiving guests or letters), reduction in their wages, the extension of their original sentence, immediate relocation in Azkaban or a combination of some or all of the above. After his return, Goyle started to work on his hut in earnest and his efforts yielded surprising success. No one could deny that Goyle was a natural.

Lucius was the only one who could not be caught doing anything. Snape heard Draco yell at his father ("_One of these mouse holes is difficult enough to rebuild, I can't do two alone_!"), but nothing changed. Lucius simply could not adapt to the situation. In the end, Draco - true to the old Malfoy-traditions - persuaded Goyle to help him out; and it was easy to see who did the more difficult jobs afterwards.

Picking up some basic information about the other convicts was practically unavoidable; but it happened through silent observation and inevitable overhearing of shouts and yells only. Snape never talked to anyone. No one tried to approach him (unless he counted a few idiotic grins from Lucius, which he was unable to return); nor did he try to mix with his fellow convicts, and with good reason. The truth about his role in the war (or at least the information that it was the Dark Lord himself who had wanted to kill him) must have penetrated to captive Death Eater circles; and Snape soon discovered he had secret 'friends', who did not shrink from stealing from him and from painting offensive messages on his door.

Fire alarms were frequent. Wizards without a Muggle background had no idea how to use matches, and they often did not bother to make sure a candle stood upright in its holder when it was not fixed by magic. Worse still, they had no experience of putting out fires without a wand. Some of them did not even seem to realize that a bucket of water would do the trick just as well as an Aguamenti spell. They had to learn it to their cost, and sometimes to their neighbours' cost, and some of them were annoyingly slow, but the majority of the convicts were learning all the same.

Some of the guards found the sight of dark wizards working in the Muggle way amusing. They often stood by to watch them, to laugh at them and to taunt them. There had been a time when Snape would have been easy prey for taunts - but not any more. He pretended not to hear anything; therefore the guards left him alone. Even so, in the beginning, his anger sometimes resulted in an involuntary magical reaction, but he managed to hide that, too. Still, he knew he had to be more careful. He did not want to be reduced to the level of a preteen child, who could not control his magical power. It would not only be pathetic, it would be dangerous as well. His magic was more powerful than that of a preteen child. Many times more powerful. Not even Nagini's venom had changed that.

Weasley had repeatedly told them to go to him with any problems, and a little, fox-faced wizard named Hunter, whose house was at the far end of the row, decided to take him up on this offer, and went to him to ask for help with the work. Hunter returned cursing Weasley - as it turned out, he had been offered handbooks about various Muggle techniques. Weasley had apparently forced a heavy tome on him, but Hunter threw the book away in disgust. Snape picked it up.

He had sneered at first, hearing Hunter's loud complaint, but he soon began to like the idea of using a handbook, and this one was exactly the kind that he needed. After all, the hut might collapse if he made a mistake, and how could he not make a mistake? He would never have _asked_ for the book though – he would not have asked anyone for help; least of all a wizard who had not only been his student, but was also a member of the family that Snape had good reason to feel guilty about. George Weasley's accident was another bad memory, and it was impossible that the Weasleys did not hold it against him.

The handbook, however, could not make up for lack of real expertise. Understanding what to do was one thing, but putting the theory into practice was another matter altogether. He worked until late at nights and went to bed with the conviction that the house would collapse within a few months. One could not master just any Muggle skill in a couple of weeks. He wondered whether the Ministry people were aware of that.

He had to try a different approach ... It could be quite as difficult as the first one, and failure was just as likely; but he saw no other way. With a wand, he could have used various everyday spells to replace the phases of the Muggle job despite his limited knowledge of real building spells. But even with a wand, he would have taken risks, and now he had to make do without one.

Yet, wandless magic had a lot of potential. It had saved the day (and ensured victory for Potter) when the Dark Lord had almost killed Snape. Although he had never extracted memories from his mind without a wand before, and no one had ever told him that it was possible, as he had lain wounded and nearly dying and with no use for his wand, the memories had come flooding out of his mind, simply because he had _wanted_ to give them to Potter.

Since this time he had to _repair walls_ without a wand, he needed a careful plan. Success was not only a question of the sheer force of his power; it was the correct measuring and the precise aiming of the force that mattered most; and that was exactly what wands were for. Experiments demanded solitude, therefore he temporarily left off the renovation and explored the surroundings in search of places where he could be alone and undisturbed.

The plot of land where Snape and the others could move around with comparative freedom was divided into several smaller areas. There were five rows of houses where convicts lived - they looked very similar to one another. These rows were branching in different directions from a centre, where bigger and better buildings stood, occupying a large, roughly circular area. They were used as administration offices and various facilities, including the ones that were strictly for personnel only.

Further away from these buildings, the landscape was not particularly inviting. Snape discovered spots where the industrial wastes of former, long-forgotten inhabitants seemed to have been accumulated and left behind. Other spots were claimed (or reclaimed) by some of the toughest and most enduring species of nature, ready to proliferate in the relatively harsh and conspicuously polluted environment.

The settlement was surrounded by boggy wetland on all sides but one, where a magically fortified fence marked the boundary. Behind this fence, a simple path led to a Muggle village, where many of the personnel working at the convict colony had their lodgings. The population of the village consisted of few (mostly old) inhabitants, possibly forgotten by Muggle authorities, who did not mind renting out their property and selling the products of their gardens to the new-comers.

Living in the neighbourhood of a group of wizards notorious for their anti-Muggle prejudice, the villagers enjoyed the special (though secret) protection of the Ministry of Magic so that they were able to live, come and go as before, and the convicts could not have escaped using their routes or transportation methods. Convicts needed special permission to leave the fenced settlement to start with; but no wizards or witches, not even personnel, could have travelled beyond the Muggle village due to a second (less obvious) line of magical boundary, which not even Ministry employees were able to cross, except a select few.

Everywhere else, the boundary was the bog. The mist that Snape had seen on the first day was hanging over it (as well as beyond the Muggle village) continuously. For magical travellers, the only route to and from the area led across the wetland, but Weasley had described the dangers to the convicts very vividly on the first day.

"You are never to attempt to cross the bog. Firstly - it is strictly prohibited. Secondly - there are many spots where you could easily sink without a wand and without thorough knowledge of the paths. Be warned - it can be a deadly place. The mist, which you must have noticed, is magically impenetrable for you. You will be locked inside it as soon as you reach it. Should that happen to any of you, the guards would be immediately alerted, and believe me - you would be found. Thirdly - there are creatures out there ... dangerous, magical ones."

Snape could sense the presence of local magic in the wildest and quietest corners of the place. Still, the settlement had once belonged to a Muggle company hoping to exploit the underground wealth of the area. Their hopes had failed, however. Either the land had run out of exploitable resources much sooner than they had expected or the natural magical activity of the place was strong enough to drive the Muggles away, but the site had eventually been abandoned. Finally the Ministry of Magic bought it from the Muggles at a ridiculously low price. In spite of that, wizards had not used the land until now; and the signs of former misuse followed by neglect were abundantly obvious everywhere.

For Snape's purposes, a thicket he found on the edge of the bog, far enough from the buildings, the fence and the commonly used paths was the most suitable spot. There he could test the full power of his magic without being observed.

Of course, he had used wandless magic ever since his arrest - all kinds of magic that he could risk without calling attention to himself. Twice he had done Legilimency on Goyle, as Goyle had gaped at him lazily. (Entering Goyle's mind was a boring exercise, but at least Goyle would not notice the intrusion.) He tried to make objects move with his will. That was difficult, but he had done it involuntarily as a kid, and it was at least probable that he might be able to do it in a controlled way, too. He practised Occlumency every night, right before falling asleep. Although no one was likely to break into his mind, there were more and more things he did not want to dream or think about.

Besides, it was hardly possible _not_ to use one's magic above a certain age; and the wizards and witches at the Ministry had to realize it, too. Suppressed magic could be harmful. Snape, like any other wizard, detested being deprived of his wand, but even in this degrading situation, he was determined to take care of his magic.

The only way to find out how much one could do without a wand was trying it. Snape therefore tried; and, as far as power was concerned, the results were not bad. What was more, they improved with practice. Yet, powerful wandless magic was a rough, untamed force, much more suitable for demolishing a house than for building anything.


	11. The Scientist and the Boy

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 11**

_The Scientist and the Boy_

_So Death crossed to an elder tree on the banks of the river, fashioned a wand from a branch that hung there, and gave it to the oldest brother._

Snape was dreaming about Death. He was lying on his cloak under the trees of the thicket where he had been practising wandless magic until he had dozed off. In his dream, Death had the face of Dumbledore. The Dumbledore-faced figure took a branch from one of the trees of the thicket …

He opened his eyes suddenly. He saw a canopy of leaves above, and he felt cold in his limbs. He sat up. It was late afternoon already and he had not got any closer to solving the problem that had exhausted him – how to direct his magic precisely at the target without a wand? How to regulate the power of the magic?

Death had fashioned a wand from a branch… that was strikingly familiar. As though it had happened before. As though he had already dreamed of it … or read about it … somewhere.

Of course… He remembered now the story that he had read as a student, practising for his Ancient Runes exam. It was a fairy tale. Children's stuff. But maybe not… Was such a thing possible in real life? There was no mention of wand cores in the tale … no unicorn hair or phoenix feather, just a branch. Experts like Ollivander would probably protest … but he, Severus Snape, could still try to find - if not a proper wand, at least a substitute.

He leaped to his feet, and began examining the trees around him, touching them, almost caressing some of them, trying to feel their hidden magic. Finally, he chose a branch. It was roughly the size of a wand. If he could only channel his magic through it somehow, he could concentrate his power on the target more precisely.

No swishing or waving; only pointing. Steadily. For quite a while, nothing happened, but finally there came a moment when he could feel a light tremble in his fingers clutching the branch, and the wood responded with a similar tremble.

The experiment was becoming exciting. The branch got heated and sent up sparks – luckily, not too many and not too high up. He tried various methods with various degrees of success until the tree branch broke in his hand. That did not discourage him. A makeshift substitute was not likely to last long (otherwise Ollivander could close down his shop), but it was better than nothing.

Unfortunately, it was too late that night to search the trees for another suitable branch. The thicket had darkened, and he had to feel his way among the plants with his hands. But the night was clear. In the open field, the moon illuminated his way back to his hut.

"Hey, you! What are you doing there?"

A guard had emerged from the semi-darkness.

"Walking," he replied, sounding indifferent.

"Lurking in the dark?"

"It isn't dark. The moon is full."

"Go inside and lock your door before _I_ lock it for you!" shouted the man. "I don't want to see any of you sneaking out in these parts tonight!"

There was no point in arguing although Snape had not heard about any rules against being outside at night. He walked on, but a minute later he froze. A long, eerie sound filled the air, breaking the silence of the night… the unmistakable howl of a wolf. It was quite close.

He looked back and saw the guard wheel round, his wand pointing at one of the huts. Snape was sure that the guard's sudden movement was a reaction to the howl, which had indeed come from the direction the guard was watching so tensely now. Snape glanced up at the full moon and then at the hut again. It belonged to Hunter, the wizard who had refused the handbook Weasley had offered to him. Snape was certain that the howl had come from the guarded hut.

So the guard was nervous and angry because - with his wand in his hand - he was afraid! The realization gave Snape a faint sense of satisfaction; although he, too, was rather happy to be finally inside and to see one more door between himself and the Dark Lord's werewolf.

He continued the experiments until he deemed it safe to try his new abilities in real life. He knew he would not be able to repair the hut with one flick of his hand; but his magic was more focused and precise now, making many small improvements quicker and easier. The gradual method suited him perfectly - though a branch was not technically a wand, complete secrecy was still the wisest course to follow. His hut began to look safer and better at last. Several branches were used up in the process, but the rapid success of his secret spells compensated him amply for the time he spent on finding and practising with a new replacement.

The first month soon ended, and it was time the convicts learned what their real job would be. They were informed by Weasley, in the course of another eloquent and boring speech, this time emphasizing the importance of their new task.

The gist of Weasley's words was that the convicts would have to restore the landscape: to remove the memories of the failed Muggle industrial activity and to provide more welcoming habitat for local wildlife. The bog was home to a variety of magical and non-magical plants and creatures, many of which had become rare or nearly extinct in the past decades; the Ministry's goal was to turn the area into a nature reserve suitable for purposes of tourism, education and research. The convicts would do the non-magical parts of the job and they would be paid for their work.

Many of them protested. Non-magical manual work was traditionally deeply despised, and few wizards would have regarded it as anything but a form of humiliation. Weasley, always clutching his wand when talking to them, tried to explain the advantages of the non-magical method in this particular case, but no one listened. The indignant voices trailed off only when Weasley mentioned the alternative punishment – Azkaban.

Under the supervision of the guards, the convicts started work early next the morning. It was exactly as menial and tiring as Snape had imagined. To start with, they had to fight a hopeless-looking battle against rusting metal, chemicals, batteries, broken electronic devices and various plastic materials (unfamiliar to most wizards) – decades-old piles of industrial rubbish that had been left and forgotten in the abandoned Muggle settlement.

Snape carried out his tasks without complaint. Although he managed to include a little bit of wandless magic here and there, it did not save him from exhaustion, the inevitable backache or the mosquitos. Yet, he kept working silently all day long while others were complaining loudly around him - he was reluctant to show the slightest solidarity with his fellow convicts. He could not expect any sympathy from them anyway. Their hostility towards him was more and more pronounced.

By Saturday, several of the convicts (Alecto Carrow among the first ones) had visited the hospital (there was one near the office buildings), complaining of pains or feigning sickness, and hoping to take a few days off. Snape did not resort to such tricks. At least, not yet.

The next week, a more complicated phase of the conservation work began. The convicts spent their days on the edge of the bog, where pollution had seriously harmed the ecosystem, taking samples, making measurements and continuing the cleaning. The bog was not too deep or dangerous there yet, but mosquitoes and other insects were swarming, and their wellington boots could get filled with water any moment. They were joined now by two of the Ministry's environmental experts, who were directing and supervising the project as well as doing all the jobs that required magic. The convicts saw them from a distance only – they received instructions through the guards, who accompanied them on broomsticks.

In another week, many of the convicts did not need to pretend to be ill. An unknown disease with alarming symptoms ranging from severe headaches to violent vomiting to temporary mental disorders appeared and spread like wildfire. The sick were taken to hospital, but their recovery was often slow and relapses were frequent. Although no one had died of the illness, the rumour that the epidemic was caused by the unhealthy environment and that the Ministry wanted to get them killed this way excited a great deal of interest. The guards only increased the tension by mercilessly taunting those who were loath to approach a particularly disgusting spot in the bog.

Snape did not worry about the disease. His mind had been leached of all emotions and thoughts beyond the immediate concerns of an animal existence by sheer fatigue, until one day he received unexpected help from the wetland itself: the rare gift of a magical herb whose leaves he could mix into his tea to produce a strong refreshing, restorative drink. Hard physical work did not wear him down so easily now, and (although he had no time to look for wand substitutes) his magic was still in good repair.

He glimpsed several other potion ingredients as he advanced a little deeper into the bog. Exploration had its dangers though. Wandering off on the spongy ground, he might fall into a deadly trap or he might be spotted by the guards; and the latter was hardly better than the former. He took the risk nevertheless and succumbed to the temptation to secretly collect some potentially useful leaves and berries.

He could not even dream about using them in anything more complex than herbal tea or simple medicines - to brew real potions, he would have needed more than a few plants; and as his gaze fell on his roughened, scratched and bruised hands, it struck him how those hands were becoming unsuitable for potion making. Handling large, heavy and rough objects all the time was ruining the touch that had helped him feel the fineness of a leaf and the precise weight of light things and tiny amounts. Granted, it was possible to make potions with rough hands, and his mind was still the same. But details mattered. In less than a year, he would not be the kind of potioneer that he had been. His hands would lose their skill. If circumstances permitted him, he would still be able to make potions that would be good enough for many - but he would not be able to take pride in them any more.

He was roused from these thoughts by a terrified cry. He looked up. Still further in the bog, a panic-stricken Draco Malfoy (another illegal explorer, no doubt) was wriggling frantically, as something long was winding around his legs, and stretching upwards.

Snape had to tread on treacherous sphagnum moss and consider every step very carefully to reach Draco, but he seized the boy's arms just as Draco was about to fall. No one else was nearby. Without a wand or matches, there was only one thing Snape could try.

"Don't move, Draco" he said. "I'll pull you out."

Draco tensed his body as the murderous tendrils twined round his waist, dragging him downwards. Snape pulled and Draco gave a painful moan as though two opposing forces were tearing him apart.

"Relax-"

Snape could feel a creeper slither around his ankles, when a flame appeared at the tip of a wand, approaching the Devil's Snare closely but without burning Draco; and the tendrils rapidly withdrew. Snape held Draco firmly, and the boy, too, held on tightly to Snape. For a while, it seemed he would collapse if he had to stand on his own.

A broomstick was floating beside them, and Snape glanced up to see the rescuer. The next instant, his hands fell off Draco, and he turned away as though he had just found something extremely interesting among the moss.

"Are you all right?" said a hoarse but friendly female voice.

The words were addressed to Draco, but Snape could almost feel in his back the gaze of the colourfully dressed witch with the out-of-place-looking, pointed straw hat. Leaving Draco in the care of the wand-carrying broomstick-rider, he slogged back to his place and resumed working. He could only hope that the witch had not recognized him. For Snape now knew who had saved Draco and who was directing the environmental project.

Four years before, in early summer, Hogwarts had played host to a conference, where Professor Avis Wood had been the star guest. She gave lectures on her environmental research, and spent considerable time exploring the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid. Snape gave the guests a tour of the Hogwarts Potions Laboratory, where Professor Wood had several questions. After the tour, she asked Snape if he could spare some more time for her. Professor Wood was interested in certain unusual combinations of potion ingredients and the expected patterns of change in magical characteristics. Snape answered all the questions that he was able to answer, and for the rest, he offered to do the necessary experiments. Professor Wood was delighted.

Snape spent several days assisting the prominent guest with her queries, for which Professor Wood expressed her deepest gratitude, saying that Snape had provided extremely valuable background information for her research, which she – not being a potions expert – could not have obtained without professional help. A few weeks after the conference, she sent Snape an owl with a unique offer: She invited Snape to take part in her upcoming three-year research trip to the Amazon rainforest. Snape was to be the team's potions expert, who, besides supporting the research work of the others, could carry out his own research, studying potion ingredients that were rare or unknown in other parts of the world.

The opportunity was more than tempting. He would leave Hogwarts, the students and the home essays to visit a faraway, exotic place, full of wonderful sights he had never seen. He did not really consider going away for three years, but Dumbledore could surely spare him for a couple of months, which he might combine with the summer months. It would make for quite a substantial trip.

An invitation from Professor Wood was in itself an honour – everyone knew s_he_ would invite only the best experts into her team. It would amply make up for the loss of the Order of Merlin that in a mad moment Snape had hoped and almost longed for. It would compensate him for a bad year, in which two of his school-age tormentors had reappeared in his already joyless life, leaving frustration and headache in their wake.

Then there were the study and research opportunities. He would explore the richest potion ingredients stock in the world and could experiment with new potions and new possibilities at his leisure. He could write a book. He would be invited to give lectures. He would contribute something really useful and important to the subtle science of potion-making.

For two weeks that summer, he got up and went to bed with these colourful and ambitious plans. Then he could not ignore the signs any more. He could not ignore the faint cobweb lines running down his left arm, winding and curling in an intricate pattern, gradually revealing the image that had the power to ruin his life again. Something was happening out there, and soon there were other signs indicating the same - and Snape stayed at Hogwarts to carry out Dumbledore's plan…

Professor Wood had travelled to the rainforest without Snape. From the way she looked now, Snape could guess she had just recently returned to Britain. It was logical enough: By the end of the three years, the Dark Lord had seized political power – for Professor Wood, the sensible thing must have been to delay her return.

He took care to avoid the scientist for the rest of the day, but when they finished work, she was standing with the other environmental expert beside the guards, watching the tired, dirty men, as they were getting ready to leave.

"Are they all convicts?" Professor Wood asked a guard, just behind Snape's back. "Some faces seem familiar."

"All of them," the guard answered with surprising politeness. "You may have seen them in the papers, although most of the famous ones are in Azkaban. But we have Lucius Malfoy; he used to be a big fish. Very rich and powerful."

"Malfoy," muttered the hoarse, familiar voice. "Malfoy…"

She was still shaking her head and muttering long after the convicts had gone out of sight.

* * *

><p>The disease continued to be virulent, yet none of the personnel was affected, and the unsettling rumours died hard.<p>

"They're killing us" said Draco Malfoy to his father, who, however, was not paying any attention to his son.

It was Saturday afternoon, and Snape had just examined the state of his roof again – the clouds in the sky promised heavy rains for the night. Therefore checking the roof had seemed a good idea, but he had not discovered any damage.

"Good afternoon, Severus," the older Malfoy greeted him with exaggerated politeness.

Since the incident with the Devil's Snare, Lucius had made several tentative but friendly gestures towards Snape, who was not impressed at all. Lucius stood in front of Snape now, his eyes hollow and bloodshot. Snape took a step backwards.

"I … want to tell you, Severus" Lucius continued with some difficulty, "I don't believe what they … say of you … that you have been put here to … spy on us… to give reports and everything."

Snape's face flushed with anger, but Lucius did not seem to notice. He grinned and rattled on.

"Stupid, isn't it? There's nothing more to find out about us … nothing to report that they don't know…"

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Snape said silkily. "For example, a spy might report illegal use of alcohol in some quarters … Drunkenness even…"

Lucius hiccupped. The convicts were not allowed to use or to possess alcoholic drinks, but the smell of his breath could easily have given rise to suspicion.

"What is more," Snape added, lowering his voice to a whisper, "one could deduce that no convicts could have smuggled in enough Firewhisky to last until now … therefore they must have an accomplice who brings them their supplies … and that might make one wonder about bribes."

Lucius Malfoy's eyes betrayed fear for a moment - then he laughed. His laughter was forced and artificial.

"What a funny chap you are, Severus… We don't have money for bribes, as you know very well -"

"In your place, I'd be very careful … careful to protect whoever is paying the price _from outside_."

This time Lucius had no answer. It took him a minute to be able to speak again.

"You must be k-kidding," he stammered. "Who would bribe a g-guard from out-outside? You are pulling the leg of an old friend … One of these days we should sit down and talk -."

Lucius attempted a meaningful and shrewd look, but Snape had already turned away from him. He understood the insinuation perfectly, but this time Lucius was courting the wrong man – Snape had no secret political power. His gaze met Draco's.

"Leave him alone," Draco hissed. "He didn't hurt you."

Lucius slowly walked away.

"I only warned him," Snape said. "You don't want to land your _mother_ in trouble with the Ministry."

Draco's face contorted with anger.

"Of course, a lot of us wonder why you are here," he snarled. "I heard what Potter said about you…_Dumbledore's spy!_ Don't pretend to be worried about my family!"

Snape stared at Draco.

"Was I really pretending anything like that? I didn't notice."

Draco snorted.

"Why did you want to save me from the Devil's Snare?"

"I don't like watching people getting killed."

"It would not have been for the first time. You could have closed your eyes," snapped Draco.

"Perhaps next time I will," Snape promised, enraged at the boy's insolence. "But remember, Draco … if the Dark Lord had won -"

"And what will be of us _here_?" Draco interrupted. "Devil's snares… and we may catch the disease any moment. They want us to die."

Draco looked at Snape with sudden anxiety as though expecting him to either confirm or disprove the suspicion.

"It's a contagious disease," Draco added. "There are all sorts of symptoms… I … started sneezing this morning."

Snape raised his eyebrows.

"Now, _that_ may be a contagious disease."

Draco turned a shade paler.

"Do you really think so?"

"The common cold is contagious," Snape replied. "But what you fear is a different thing."

"Goyle's told me he won't come near me if I get sick. He doesn't want to catch it," Draco muttered.

"The cold?" Snape sneered.

"You know what I'm talking about! Everyone's afraid."

Snape sneered again, contemptuously.

"Goyle should not. There is little chance that _he_ will get the so-called disease … or that it could be very severe in his case. But at least you can see what a great friend you have, Draco."

"Why do you think Goyle is immune?"

"I watched him for seven years. For most of the time, he was a pathetic wizard."

"What does that have to do with the disease?"

"Everything."

"I don't understand."

"Think, Draco," said Snape. "You used to be smart."

Draco was furious, but he wanted to find out more about the subject.

"Aren't _you_ afraid of the disease?"

"_I_ will not catch it. At least not in the near future."

"What do you have in common with Goyle?" Draco inquired.

"Nothing," Snape replied categorically. "Goyle is not a good enough wizard to be seriously affected by this malady. I'm too good to contract it."

Draco was still puzzled.

"And what about _me_?"

"It depends on you," Snape answered. "The _disease_ is nothing else but an upsurge of unused magical energy. In Azkaban, the Dementors took care of it in their own way, but here, _we_ must look after our magic. With abilities like Goyle's, there's not much to fear; but _your_ magic may well take revenge on you if you neglect it."

Draco was silent. He seemed unsure whether he should believe Snape or not.

"How much time do you have to spend here?" Snape asked after some hesitation.

"A year," Draco answered reluctantly, "and it's long enough. I don't want any more trouble. I know we mustn't use magic while we are here."

Snape was eyeing his former student pensively. Had Draco learned nothing about the most important things at Hogwarts? Was that the fault of the teachers (including the 'late' Professor Snape) or Draco's own? No wands – no magic? Had he not started the very first Potions class with his first-year students pointing out that there was magic beyond wands? Potions could not be brewed without magic, and yet, the role of wands in potion-making was almost negligible. What did it take to make wizards understand that the magic was not in their wands but in themselves?

He checked his thoughts just in time.

"We mustn't use _wands_," he said curtly and went back into his hut.

For a moment, he had almost forgotten that he was not a teacher any longer.


	12. Control Solution

__Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling.__

****Too Deep for the Healing****

****Chapter 12****

__Control Solution__

Snape kept count of the days because Saturdays and Sundays brought him much needed rest, but he did not count the weeks. There was no point in measuring the time before him; what mattered was the short, recurring cycle of weeks. But he noticed that the summer was over. The rain became duller and more frequent, the days grew shorter, the nights grew chillier, and many plants changed their colour. Migrating birds flew over the wetland, heading for the south, and the hut had to be heated.

Professor Wood had apparently spent only a few weeks in the area. After that, her colleague directed the environmental project alone; and Snape could stop worrying about embarrassing chance meetings with her.

The convicts had to live on their wages now. They did not earn much, but shopping opportunities were limited, too. A small shop opened in the camp, serving the needs of the personnel and the convicts, and selling goods coming from the other side of the wetland as well as fresh meat, fish, berries, vegetables and drinks from the nearby village.

Snape was alone as ever. His double-agent past made him a marked man - again. Lucius, too, stopped talking to him. Even Hunter, the werewolf, who found himself at the bottom of the hierarchy of convicts, often expressed his contempt when he saw Snape. But Snape did not miss their friendship.

On his solitary walks, it became his habit to keep an eye out for herbs and potion ingredients, and when he discovered a spot where edible mushrooms were thriving, collecting them was the most natural next step. It was a way of saving money; therefore he got up early on a Sunday morning and was already returning with the mushrooms in his backpack when most of the camp was just barely awake yet.

"Look, who is coming," said a bored voice behind the guards' broomstick shed. "Where have you been so early, Snape?"

"Giving reports, weren't we?"

From behind the shed, two former snatchers appeared, who had both denied the Dark Lord at their trials, but had become his ardent admirers after the verdict. Behind their backs, Gregory Goyle was approaching somewhat shyly. He had recently dropped Draco's friendship and was hanging out with other bullies nowadays.

Snape went on walking without changing his speed, but the bullies soon blocked his way, forcing him to stop.

"Leave me alone," he said emphatically, looking deep into the eyes of the nearest one.

He kept staring at the former snatcher without blinking, until the man took a slow step backwards, and then another and yet another one, unable to take his gaze off Snape. His friend grabbed his arm and shook him.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"Any problems here?"

Unnoticed, a beefy guard had approached them, his voice full of suspicion and menace. The distraction was enough for the eye-contact to break.

"He attacked me!" the snatcher shouted suddenly; his finger pointed at Snape. "He was using magic!"

The guard's wand was instantly directed at Snape.

"Where is it?" he barked.

"Where is what?" Snape asked back, being truly puzzled for a moment.

"The wand. Give it to me now!"

"I don't have a wand," said Snape calmly.

"Didn't you use magic?"

"It was wandless magic. The power of the mind. That jerk had to be taught good manners."

"He's a liar, don't believe him!"

The former snatchers stopped a few steps away from the guard, watching the scene. The guard did not believe in the power of the mind, and the illegal use of magic interested him much more than any conflict between convicts. He ordered Snape to turn out his pockets, and he searched the backpack trying to find a magical object.

"Whatever it was, hand it over at once," he snarled. "I'm not interested in your lies!"

Snape wondered whether a demonstration of his skills would pacify or irritate the guard even more. Meanwhile, the guard's wand was still pointing at him.

"I'm warning you, scum, I have the means to search you … I can take every single piece of clothes off you until I find the magical device you are hiding, and I promise I _will_ do it. Now. What do you say to that?"

"I don't think so."

Snape's voice was quiet, but the crack of a whip could not have been sharper. The anger that flared up in the dark eyes was deeper and darker than anything the guard had seen before, and Snape had no more control over the magic erupting from that anger. The guard gave a yell of terror, which broke off all too abruptly, as he froze, then collapsed on the spot.

Another guard came running, while the former snatchers were gaping at Snape with a mixture of fear and awe. Snape stood motionless, weighing the chances of the guard being dead. But the man opened his eyes as his colleague reached him, and soon stood on his feet, muttering something that Snape could not hear, on his way towards the hospital.

No one said anything to Snape, who continued his way back to his hut, his mind still in the grip of the anger that had made him lose control – the anger that had been accumulating in him for such a long time that he had stopped being aware of it. He expected retaliation, but hiding was not an option. There were no hiding places or escape routes; _that_ he knew very well; and he would not be found crouching behind a bush or lying under a bed.

Soon enough, the door of the hut banged open, and three guards entered. They were approaching slowly and silently, wands pointing ahead. It was unlikely that Snape could defend himself when all of them attacked together.

"What's going on here?" a commanding voice demanded behind the guards.

One of the guards turned around, and Snape saw Weasley dressed in a travelling cloak, a briefcase in one hand, a wand in another. Apparently, he had just arrived at his office and he must have noticed the group of guards forcing Snape's door open.

"This scoundrel attacked Tanner," the guard replied. "He's in hospital."

"Really?" Weasley asked, looking from the guards to Snape and back again.

The guards stepped closer to Snape, who was silent.

"I should have been informed immediately, I'm his supervisor," said Weasley. "Bring him to my office."

The guards clearly disliked the idea of revenge being taken out of their hands for the moment, but they had to obey Weasley. In the office, the supervisor cast another searching look at each of them.

"You will wait here," he said to Snape. "I must investigate. Come with me," he turned to the guards.

The office door was locked behind Snape, but all the guards left with Weasley. (Snape saw them through the window.) The position in which he found himself was not entirely new. Every seasoned Death Eater had experienced, at least once, what it was like to wait for punishment (they had never had to wait long though). What did these people know that the Dark Lord had not known? _They could send him to Azkaban_, he answered his own question. There would be no forced labour in the prison – but there would be no herbs or substitute wands either. And he would not have his own key.

Weasley returned alone and locked the door again. He sat down opposite Snape and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

"A good start of a Sunday," he muttered; his tone noticeably different from the one he had used in the presence of the guards. "What, in Merlin's name, was that magic? Tanner is talking about having been struck by a lightning bolt."

"Do you think I can produce a lightning bolt?" Snape asked. "And without a wand?"

Weasley regarded Snape with a calculating look as though he could not _quite_ rule out the possibility. Snape was wondering how Weasley had become a supervisor. It was an odd job for an ambitious, career-oriented Ministry employee. Had he taken the position voluntarily? If he had been a collaborator, he would be among the convicts now; but as a supervisor, he was exiled almost as much as they were, and Snape noticed that Weasley looked (and behaved) strangely old for his age nowadays.

"Tanner thinks you are in possession of a wand or some other forbidden magical object," Weasley replied at last. "He says you attacked him."

"Tanner has never heard about wandless magic," said Snape. "_He_ threatened me with a wand. I stopped him."

"Wandless magic …" Weasley murmured. "What about the other convicts who were there?"

"They thought they could bully me," Snape answered. "They were wrong."

"How did the conflict start?"

Snape cast a sharp look at the supervisor.

"_For some reason_," he said slowly, "they are convinced I betrayed the Dark Lord."

There was a moment's silence.

"Well …" Weasley swallowed hard. "I see. What did you do to them?"

"I made them go away. That was when Tanner interfered. He thinks magic equals wands."

"But it doesn't," said Weasley.

"Most definitely not."

The expression that briefly crossed Percy Weasley's face was that of envy. It was in stark contrast to his usual stiff and self-important manner. On the whole, he did not seem half as hostile as the convicts or the guards; and it had been so long since Snape had talked to anyone that simply uttering what was in his mind meant a relief even though the occasion was only an interrogation.

"Using wandless magic is technically," Weasley cleared his throat, "not prohibited. Attacking a guard is a serious offence nevertheless."

"He shouldn't have provoked me," Snape snapped.

"Whatever he said, he did not actually _do_ anything, whereas _you_ knocked him out. Purely defensive magic would have been a better choice."

"I didn't have time to choose the type of magic. It happened very … quickly."

Weasley's eyes glinted with vivid interest. Snape wanted to bite his tongue, but it was too late now.

"You mean you did not consciously _want_ to attack him?"

Snape did not like the question.

"Most people react instinctively to unexpected, immediate danger," he said quietly.

"It was uncontrolled, accidental magic then," Weasley declared triumphantly. "Had you experienced it before?"

"I know how to keep my magic in control," Snape answered, feeling offended. "This was an exception. Tanner had interrupted an ongoing magical process; and the magical energy that I had been about to use simply found a different outlet."

"Exception or not, it can't be ignored. Have you been to the hospital?"

"Never."

"You should go then. I have already wanted to mention it – you need to go there for a checkup. It's Madam Pomfrey's instruction."

"I didn't know it still mattered."

"Of course, it matters. And it's important that you report this accidental outbreak of magic, too. In the given circumstances, you cannot be held responsible for such an occurrence, but visiting the hospital is obligatory. Since today is Sunday, they only accept emergency cases. You will go there tomorrow."

Weasley unlocked a drawer.

"I'm afraid you have acquired a new enemy. This Tanner doesn't look like the forgiving type."

Snape shrugged.

"All I have is enemies."

"That's an exaggeration," Weasley said and took a box out of the drawer and opened it. "Help yourself."

The box contained custard tarts, and Weasley pushed it towards Snape across the desk. "My mum baked them."

"You shouldn't waste them on criminals then," said Snape, thinking of Mrs Weasley (and George Weasley) with a pang of guilt.

"I don't," Weasley replied, and picked up a custard tart. "Try them. They're good."

The custard tart reminded Snape of Hogwarts, and he almost had to force it down his throat. Weasley, however, was cheered up by the food.

"It should be easier after the first six months," Weasley mused. "You will be allowed to receive and send letters; and maybe someone comes here to see you."

Snape doubted that the end of the first six months could bring any changes to _him_, but he did not argue.

"I've got a letter from Professor McGonagall," Weasley said. "She's asking me about you."

"Tell her I'm fine," said Snape sardonically. "How is she doing?"

"Very busy, I suppose," Weasley answered. "They don't know what to do with the DADA job. It's still not clear whether the curse has been removed with You-Know-Who's death or not."

"They'll see it in a year's time."

"Only if they can find someone for the position; but the Headmistress doesn't consider it ethical to offer a potentially cursed job to anyone."

* * *

><p>The possibility that his control over his magic might be weakening disturbed Snape significantly. The hours he had earlier spent learning to use a substitute wand, which he could not risk using in front of others, might have been a waste of time - he realized he had to be in full control under <em>any<em> circumstances. He tested his magic again and again - but whenever he thought of Tanner and remembered his brutal threats, he experienced the same sort of murderous, painful fury as before. Separating magic and emotion was essential, however, and that was another reason why wizards needed wands – wand-controlled magic was not triggered by emotions so easily. For him, truly controlling his magic was impossible without controlling his emotions.

The next day, he did not go to work with the others though the morning alarm woke him up, too. He comfortably took his time over breakfast before he got ready to visit the hospital. He read the name on the door of the healer's office before entering: _Healer_ _Titania Sharp_. Of all the women Snape had seen in his life, Healer Sharp was second only to Madame Maxime in size.

She stood up as Snape entered, showing the patient her full height, and with her large, fat hand, gestured for him to come closer. She assessed him with a short glance – he was wearing the uniform of convicts.

"Have you been here yet?" she asked with all too visible indifference, by way of greeting.

When she found out who Snape was and why he had come, she searched through a pile of parchments to find Snape's medical record.

"Where was that injury?" she inquired, although the wound on Snape's neck had left a perfectly noticeable and rather ugly scar.

"All right, do as I tell you," she said, taking her wand.

Healer Sharp could have done splendidly as an army sergeant.

"Do you ever feel any pain?" she asked as she had finished the diagnostic magic.

"No," said Snape.

"Fatigue? Lack of appetite? Memory problems?"

Each of her rapid-fire questions was immediately answered with a 'no'. Snape did not even ponder his replies.

"In short," the healer summarised the results of the examination, "you're in perfect health".

Her tone carried barely disguised reprimand, as though she considered it unfair that a convicted criminal was healthy while so many of the good people were ill. The contempt with which she treated Snape was similar to the one with which one might examine a sick rodent, taking special care not to touch it with bare hands.

She scribbled a note on Snape's parchment.

"There's something else here, too," she said, looking up. "Aggressive behaviour, injuring a guard…"

"It was self-defence," said Snape quickly. "A spontaneous magical occurrence."

"_Spontaneous_, eh?" Healer Sharp snorted. "And what do you mean by self-defence against a guard? How often do you have these attacks?"

"They hadn't attacked me before."

"How often do you have these attacks of uncontrolled magic?" she clarified impatiently as though Snape was incredibly stupid.

"Never."

"We know you had one yesterday."

Before Snape had a chance to reply, she added:

"You see, I'm only interested in symptoms caused by unused or uncontrolled magic. Any intentional mischief must be referred to the criminal justice system."

Snape tensed up.

"I lost control in a situation where most people would have found it difficult to remain calm," he explained. "I can't tell you whether it's a symptom or not, but my magic is generally under control."

The healer scrutinized him for a while; then shrugged.

"Controlling your magic without a wand is difficult in the long run – especially as much magic as_ you_ must have. You need some help."

She went to one of several cabinets, opened its door and fiddled with some potion bottles there. When she turned back to Snape, she was carrying a goblet containing an odourless, dark-coloured liquid.

"Drink this potion. If the symptoms persist, you must come back immediately. If not, I want to see you again in six weeks."

Snape did not touch the goblet.

"I don't need it," he said.

"That's not for you to decide," she replied sharply. "It's no use waiting until you have other symptoms or until something worse happens to someone."

"I'm not sick," said Snape. "That guard should have left me alone. I will not have my magic reduced because of him!"

He turned to leave, but Healer Sharp was quicker, and the door was locked with a metallic click.

"How many years do you have to do?" the healer asked coldly, waving her wand.

Snape glared at her; then suddenly he averted his eyes, and not a moment too soon. He had to master the force that was about to explode in him.

"Fifteen," he answered hoarsely.

"You've been here for hardly more than three months," she said. "You will not touch a wand for fifteen years. What do you think all that unused magic will do in you over such a long time?"

"It's not unused," growled Snape. "I can do controlled wandless magic."

"Very well, but it still may become uncontrolled sometimes. Loss of freedom breeds conflict. As time goes by, the symptoms will get more frequent. Yesterday you attacked a guard who had frightened you; tomorrow your magic may turn on you. Just ask your friends who have been sick - no one has protested so far. They all feel better. More relaxed and happier. You won't need that enormous magic for many years to come."

"I will _not_ drink that potion!"

"You attacked and injured a guard," she pointed out. "If you want to avoid punishment by claiming the magic was accidental, you must accept the consequences."

"I don't want to avoid punishment. I'd rather be locked up than –"

"If it happened to be a question of your own health only, I wouldn't insist," Healer Sharp interrupted. "But uncontrolled magic affects others, too, as you saw yesterday. I'm not taking any chances. Who is your supervisor?"

"Mr Weasley."

With her fist, the healer hit several times another door, one that Snape had not noticed before.

"You will take this potion in the presence of your supervisor," said the healer over her shoulder. "You will not leave this office before you drink it up."

Fury was building up in him anew, but he had to keep his feelings and his magic in control. Another incident would surely earn him a 'dangerous maniac' label. Out of the tension and the enforced control, a headache was already developing behind his temples. But just then, when it seemed so difficult to feel anything else but anger, the dark emotion gave way to surprise and profound amazement.

The other door opened, revealing another healer's office beside Healer Sharp's, and from this office, another healer entered. Healer Burbage. Her gaze swept Snape from dark eyes to clenched fists, and her lips parted and closed again without a word.

"This patient," Healer Sharp said, "refuses to take his Control Solution. You'll stay here with him, Irene, until I come back with his supervisor."

"Right," Healer Burbage answered; her voice colourless.

Healer Sharp threw some Floo Powder into the fire.

"Weasley," she shouted, "I must speak to you."

She disappeared in the fire.

Snape was not looking at Healer Burbage. His surprise was finally outweighed by the horrible prospect of being magically forced to do something against his will and of having his magical power artificially reduced. The idea that Healer Burbage, who had known him and treated him with kindness and respect before, would be witnessing this double humiliation only deepened his misery.

Healer Burbage remained standing at the door, her eyes still fixed on him.

"Professor Snape," she began, "what's the matter?"

"You've heard it," he said dourly, still without looking at her. "She insists that I drink … _that_."

He indicated the potion on the desk.

"Did you get the disease?"

"No," he growled. "I lost control … just once. A guard threatened to … Never mind. If it had been intentional, controlled wand-magic, I would get some common punishment, but since it happened without a wand and without specific intent, she says I'm dangerous and she will force me to drink that poison."

"The decrease in magic isn't forever," Healer Burbage said.

"And what will stop her from making me drink it again? She's just told me I won't need my magic for fifteen years. But it's not the way she thinks. She has no clue…"

"Are you speaking about the guard who is in hospital right now?" she asked. "Yesterday was my day off, and I haven't heard the details yet."

Snape glanced at her at last and nodded.

"He's still unwell," she continued. "He'll recover, but … what did you do to him?"

"He accused me of hiding a wand … He didn't believe me. I had to defend myself. _I don't know what happened exactly _… but he collapsed."

It was the first time he had acknowledged that. Why was he telling _her_ of all people? Why?

"I'm not proud of it," he added, "and I'll make sure it won't happen again."

"I believe you," said Healer Burbage.

Snape cast a long look at her now, straight into her eyes. She looked back at him openly and kindly. Her words calmed him a little, although he did not suppose she could help him. The other healer was older and more aggressive than her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a changed voice.

"This is my new job," she answered. "When they realized one healer was not enough, I got the second healer's position."

"Couldn't you find something better?"

"It's good enough for me," she replied, smiling faintly.

She reached for the goblet on the desk, grabbed it, and poured its contents into the fire. Snape gaped at her. He had thought of spilling the potion, too – but what could that achieve? There would be more of it.

"What are you –"

But Healer Burbage rushed to the other office and returned with a coffee pot. She filled the goblet with coffee; then took the pot back to its place. Snape picked up the goblet and studied the coffee in it silently for several moments.

"There's no sugar in it yet -" Irene said tentatively.

Snape shook his head.

"No, sugar won't do."

Although both the coffee and the Control Solution were dark brown, the two shades were distinctly different, and the pungent aroma of coffee was instantly recognizable.

"A little wormwood," he muttered, "and a few well-chosen words ought to do the trick."

"Wormwood?"

"You know what it is, I presume?"

This sounded so much like the former Professor Snape that further delay was impossible. She opened another cabinet, where various potion ingredients were stored, and gave Snape the required plant. Murmuring softly, he crumbled a few leaves into the coffee.

"Near enough," he assessed the result a minute later. The coffee was not easily recognizable any more. He would have to drink it quickly though.

Healer Burbage watched him in awe.

"You never mentioned that at school," she remarked.

"What do you mean?" Snape asked, still observing the contents of the goblet.

"I thought you needed fire and cooking and stirring to make anything out of potion ingredients."

"Usually you do," Snape replied curtly.

"But this was different."

"_Very different_," he glanced up, half-annoyed, half-amused. "What did I do? I changed the colour and the smell of this drink. Its magical and medicinal properties are still the same. Even this superficial change is only temporary. It's the difference between a potion and a practical joke."

Healer Burbage seemed a little ashamed of her question, but in that very instant, green flames shot up in the fireplace. The goblet flew out of Snape's hands and landed gracefully on the desk just before Healer Sharp stepped out of the fire with Weasley at her heels. Weasley looked unhappy.

"Has anything happened?" she boomed, grinning at Healer Burbage. "Why are you holding him at wandpoint?"

Healer Burbage lowered her wand.

"He didn't do anything," she hurried to declare. "I'm keeping my wand at the ready … just in case."

"Better safe than sorry, eh? I don't blame you, Irene."

She turned to Snape.

"Here's everything in writing," she announced, waving a parchment in front of him. "Are you still refusing the medicine?"

"_Drink it_," Weasley mouthed with a gesture of resignation behind Healer Sharp's broad back.

Snape suppressed a bitter smile. He reached for the goblet.

"Not any more," he said, and drained it.

Irene Burbage watched him, but not a muscle of his face betrayed how bitter the drink must have been.


	13. A Shopping Trip

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 13**

_A Shopping Trip_

The news of the attack on Tanner the guard travelled quickly among the inmates, earning sneers but a certain respect as well for Snape. Everybody was sure that he had received severe punishment, although nobody dared ask him what it was. Therefore ten days after the incident, Snape's peers exchanged knowing glances when a guard came to the group (it was early morning on an unusually fine autumn day, and they were ready to leave for work) to order Snape to go to Mr Weasley's office at once.

Snape himself could not rule out the possibility that Tanner, who had recently left the hospital, might be demanding satisfaction for the offence. But when he entered the office, he found Weasley in much better company than Tanner: Healer Burbage was with him. Instead of her healer uniform, she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and she was holding an empty wicker basket in her hand. They had not met since the incident with the potion. Snape thought it best to assume an expression befitting a convict summoned to his supervisor's office, without indicating that he even recognized her.

"You will have a different job today," Weasley said. "Healer Burbage needs your help with her shopping. She would like you to accompany her."

Weasley's eyes lingered on Snape's work robes – the outfit was complete with a pair of gloves and other protective accessories.

"I suggest you wear Muggle-style clothes," the supervisor added.

When Snape and Healer Burbage stepped across the main gate and hit the path that Snape knew led towards the Muggle village, he was aware of an unreasonable sensation of anticipation. Of course, the other side of the fence would not be much different from the one he knew. The same landscape, the same sky, the same exile. Still, merely leaving the area to which his everyday life was now restricted meant some variety.

But that was not all. He was used to being alone, regardless of how many people were nearby. Neither the convicts, nor the authorities mattered in this respect. But Healer Burbage was company. Her attitude to him mattered, and he had a strong desire to keep up at least some semblance of dignity when she was present. Besides, her timely appearance in the hospital and her uncanny tendency to appear when and where he was in trouble had occupied his mind for many silent hours since that day in Healer Sharp's office. He wondered what she was up to this time – although simply replacing the day's bog labour with a shopping trip was in itself something of a coup.

Stealthily, he stole a side-glance at her, just when she, too, glanced at him in much the same way.

"I'm indebted to you," he began, partly to justify that glance, partly because he knew she deserved his thanks more than ever, "for taking my side in the argument with your colleague. I realize you ran a risk for my sake."

"A healer," she answered, "has to recognize when to give and when not to give a patient medicine. I'm sure it would have been a mistake to make you drink that potion, but it would not have been easy to persuade Titania to change her mind… How was the coffee?"

"Bitter," he said.

"Next time you come to the hospital, we'll drink something better. And how is life in general?"

"The same," he replied. "Why don't you give that basket to me to carry?" he added suddenly, watching her closely.

Healer Burbage raised the empty basket a little.

"This one?"

"That's the help you require, isn't it? You need someone to help carry the goods you are going to buy."

The way he said that made her feel like an Ancient Roman citizen's daughter being served by a recently captured slave who had been a prince in his own land and who had seemingly accepted his present misfortune and humble situation but still despised everything beneath his own innate, inalienable nobility.

"And why do you think this basket will have to be carried when it's full of goods?" she asked.

"Because you're going to a Muggle shop," said Snape.

She smiled.

"You're right in this last respect. I want to buy something from a Muggle lady. But the help I'm asking is different."

"What is it then?"

"I need your expertise."

"My expertise in shopping?"

"I want to buy herbs and potion ingredients," she explained. "We have hardly any potions or herbs left, but the goods we ordered from Diagon Alley are not coming."

"London is far away," he said.

"I'm afraid there'll be more to this than just the distance. Perhaps the owls could not carry the potions across the bog, or they were caught by … something. Anyway, we must give medications to our patients whatever happens, and I've seen a garden in the village with some very useful plants. They could serve as regular potion ingredients or we could replace the missing potions with some simple concoctions made of them until we receive our usual medical supplies. But the owner is a Muggle, who will sell me simply plants, not potion ingredients. I can make a number of potions, but I know much more about using them. Regarding the ingredients, I have always relied on the apothecary's expertise. I may not be able to tell which plants are the best … that's how you can help me. You can also make sure I don't mix up similar plants … and you may spot plants that I wouldn't know or notice. Will you help me with these things?"

He nodded, feeling some unexpected warmth.

Healer Burbage asked Snape a few questions about his daily life, but it was easy to notice that he did not enjoy answering those questions, and she gave up the subject. The path they were following led across a monotonous landscape, where from time to time, Snape glimpsed useful herbs growing along ditches or among rocks. He gathered leaves and roots, earning Healer Burbage's gratitude.

"I didn't realize there would be so many wild medicinal plants here," she said. "You have an eye for them."

"There are medicinal plants in the bog, too," Snape said slowly. "They are different from these ones and much more difficult to find."

"Do you collect them for yourself, too?" she asked.

"Occasionally," he replied cautiously. "But if you really want to make potions, not just herbal teas, you will need animal parts as well."

Healer Burbage chuckled.

"I don't think I'm prepared to go hunting yet. We'll make do with what we have. For a while, we'll probably manage if we rely on herbal teas and on our remaining potion supplies. Later – we'll see."

"No more Control Solution then?"

"We have a few more doses for urgent cases."

The path was lined with trees now, and soon they were walking on deep red, sober brown and bright yellow leaves. The sun shone with a cool, autumn brilliance. The air was pleasantly crisp. To Snape, it seemed like a dream – an improbable and unusual dream in which he _knew_ he was dreaming.

"Have you ever been to the village?" Healer Burbage asked.

"No."

"It's a nice walk in good weather… even if it's long."

"I'm in no hurry," he said, "but shouldn't _you_ be in the hospital?"

"Since I'm on duty on Saturdays, my Thursdays are free."

"You are sacrificing your free time then."

"I don't know," she said lightly. "A good walk is about the best entertainment that this place offers."

"But you could go anywhere. You could spend the day in London and you could even pick up the ready-made potions in Diagon Alley personally. You wouldn't need to brew anything."

"I wouldn't like that" she protested. "We order the potions by post because Titania hates the journey across the bog, our nurse is too old to run errands for us, and I'd rather pick every single ingredient by hand than meet the apothecary in Diagon Alley."

"Is there a special reason why you shun him?" he queried.

"You'd laugh at me if I told you," she answered coyly.

_Laugh_? Snape had not laughed for a long time. Her playful, genial mood was contagious, however, and he perceived something in her tone that did not quite exclude the possibility that she still might tell him.

"Let me guess," Snape said wryly. "The ugly old man proposed to you and you refused him."

She stopped, gaped at him, and gave another chuckle. The rays of the sun fell on her through the boughs and the thin foliage - a shining figure surrounded by shade. Snape was dazzled by the light as he gazed back at her. He felt the awkwardness of his words as soon as he had pronounced them. It was sunstroke – or perhaps he had become intoxicated by the unexpected quasi-free day – nothing else could explain why he was talking in this frivolous manner to her.

"You know what?" she said. "I wouldn't mind if you had a good laugh about it. Just don't tell anyone else. I applied for a job there."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Where is the laughing material?"

"I made a stupid mistake. I had to recognize potions … and I let the smell of the last one mislead me. It had a smell that was in fact the smell of … something else."

She waited to see if he understood. He did. But he did not laugh.

"The ugly old man was curious how Amortentia smelled to you," he replied quietly. "My guess was not that far off the mark after all."

"Or at least he wanted to know if I was able to recognize the potion," she said reasonably. "I'm glad I didn't get the position. I prefer to be a healer."

She set off briskly towards the village. Snape followed her, staying a few steps behind. He was not tired at all – he was feeling more energetic than at the beginning of the walk - but he had discovered a striking difference between this side of the fence and the other side, and he wanted to savour everything that this entrancing path had to offer. The colours of the trees, the light of the sun and the sight of Healer Burbage walking ahead of him and swinging the wicker basket lightly formed a complete and perfect picture that was a rare treat to his eyes.

They came upon a brook, where an uneven row of stones served as a natural bridge. Here Snape went ahead, testing the stones for stability. He had walked the enchanted staircases and corridors of Hogwarts long enough to learn to reflexively recognize and avoid vanishing stairs and other obstacles. It was a skill he used and perfected in the bog, a much more sinister place to tread than the little brook. Healer Burbage, however, did not seem to have any experience of crossing it, and Snape knew that without him, she would simply Apparate. (Apparition was possible between the fence and the village.) Still, she followed him into the brook merrily, without even mentioning the magical way. As the water deepened, Snape took her hand lest she slipped.

Soon they caught sight of the village, which was a familiar place to Healer Burbage, and she told him about the houses, their inhabitants and their gardens in colourful details.

"How do the Muggles get across the bog?" Snape asked abruptly.

"As they always did," said Healer Burbage with a strange expression. "I haven't heard anyone complain about any recent changes. Why?"

"There is that mist – how is it that they don't get locked in it?"

"I don't know the secrets of the security system," Healer Burbage answered. "But no one can get across the mist without a special guide. There are several of them watching the area all the time. I'm sure the Muggles need guides, too, only they are guided without their knowledge. I don't think you could get away from here in the Muggle way."

"I'm not asking you about security secrets. I'm not planning to break out."

"Getting lost in the bog would equal suicide," she said. "It would be madness to try to run away."

"Don't worry. It's more than the bog and the mist that keeps me here," Snape replied.

"What is it?"

"There's nothing to go back for. I may be a captive beast here, but being a hunted beast wouldn't be better. There are things I couldn't run away from."

She did not have time to ask what those things were, since they had just reached the garden that was their destination. The owner was an elderly woman, who had been expecting Healer Burbage.

"Good morning, Miss Burbage," she said.

"Good morning, Mrs Clearwater. This is Professor Snape. He's come to help me."

The Muggle woman showed them around the garden, which was indeed rich in herbs and other plants used in potion-making and in healing magic. She loved her garden and talked about it with affectionate pride. Healer Burbage promptly admired everything she saw.

Snape helped Mrs Clearwater pick the plants. Although he was not a herbologist, he knew every nuance of collecting plants intended for the cauldron. He and Mrs Clearwater agreed on the main principles, except that Snape followed those principles more rigorously. He was more selective, too, picking only berries of the highest quality and the healthiest roots. Being younger and stronger than the Muggle woman (who was also fit for her age) gave him an obvious advantage: Unlike Mrs Clearwater, Snape could easily spend long minutes kneeling on the ground to clean a root with meticulous care before putting it into the basket.

Though he did not let it show, Snape rediscovered a long-lost pleasure as he immersed himself in a potions-related job. He was also eager to be useful - at least he was paying back a little of Healer Burbage's kindness. But he had no time to observe the grateful glances she was casting at him while he was working with the herbs.

To the mutual satisfaction of seller and buyer, the wicker basket was filled with plants; and Mrs Clearwater invited 'dear Miss Burbage and Professor Snape' into her house. Healer Burbage happily accepted the invitation. Mrs Clearwater gave them tea, buttered scones and apple pie. The two women chatted in a lively manner, but Snape seldom spoke. When they finally left, he took the basket from Healer Burbage without a word and carried it for her.

"Your professor is a very intelligent gentleman, Miss Burbage" the elderly woman whispered to the younger one when she saw them out. "He isn't very talkative, but he says sensible things when he speaks."

The sun was high on the horizon, and it was almost hot now. They used the already familiar path on the way back, but to Snape, it seemed to have lost its former mysterious beauty.

"Thank you for your help, Professor," said Healer Burbage warmly, as they left behind the little village. "You've made a great contribution to our work in the hospital."

She sounded as though Snape had offered his help voluntarily to the hospital, which, as they both knew, was not the case. He would not have refused her request if he had had a choice, but it did not change the fact that he had no choice.

"Healer Burbage, I'm not called _Professor_ Snape any more," he said in a flat, emotionless voice. "You should know that."

"I … still think of you as _Professor Snape_," she replied. "That's what you should be to everyone."

"The Wizengamot had a different opinion."

"They were wrong."

"Do you think so?"

She took a sharp look at him.

"You should have let them know … you should have proved … shown -"

Snape stopped in his tracks and turned to face her.

"What?" he asked bitterly. "What should I have shown?"

Her cheeks coloured.

"I didn't mean to … to chastise you. You know your own reasons. But I don't understand why you must be here, among this sort of people, why you let them treat you as though you were a criminal, why you don't fight for justice -"

"I killed Dumbledore," Snape cut in coldly.

"And we know the reason why!"

"My motivations," he said, looking at her hard, "were as noble as anyone's who fought on our side. But it was a dirty job, dirtier than the bog here. Someone had to do it. _I_ was able to do it. Can you imagine what it takes to kill, for whatever reason, to say the word, to do the deed in the decisive moment? Do you know how I wanted Dumbledore to live? He was dying anyway, yes, but - what sort of a man is able to carry out such a task? To do it well, as perfectly as I did? Even if I had been acquitted by the council, I would have remained Dumbledore's murderer to most! I began to hate Dumbledore – afterwards. But it wasn't his fault ... he simply needed someone to do the dirty work, and I happened to walk down the path that led just there. Healer Burbage, imagine yourself in the council… Do I look like a guiltless man?"

They stood facing each other. Despair in a pair of black eyes, compassion in the other pair. She understood how he was imprisoned in something much stronger than the Ministry's magical security system.

"When Dumbledore died," Snape continued, "I killed a part of myself, too."

"A part of yourself …" said Healer Burbage, "but what about the rest? Isn't the rest worth fighting for?"

"The rest?" Snape asked vehemently. "It was the last living part … the rest had been dead for a long time. Since Dumbledore's death, I've been nothing but a walking and talking version of his plan. That's all I was worth. I saw torture, suffering, even death, like your aunt's, on my path, and yet, I went on. I did what I had to do. It's over now, and I should be thankful for it."

"But think of all the people you saved," she said. "Think of those who would be dead now, of those who would never be born if you hadn't fought for them. Think of those who finally live in peace."

"They've got Harry Potter for a hero," said Snape.

"You helped him win. He couldn't have done it without you. He told me so."

"He told the Wizengamot, too… but they knew better."

"_You_ should have told them …" said Healer Burbage. "You should have told them all this."

Snape shook his head.

"There are things that can't be told."

"You've just told _me_."

For a long, astonished moment, Snape did not respond. His head echoed with the torrent of unguarded words he had poured on her.

"You're right," he replied finally, "I've told _you_. It would be for the best if you could forget it."

He resumed walking, and she followed suit. They soon reached the brook.

"Professor Snape –"

"Professor Snape is dead. Let him rest in peace."

"How shall I address you in future then?" she asked.

Snape was standing on the steep shore of the brook, staring at the stones in the water below.

"You'll surely get the right idea when you listen to the guards," he answered.

She took a deep breath.

"If I mustn't call you Professor Snape any more, I wonder … whether you would mind if I called you … _S-Severus_-"

Snape continued staring ahead as though he could not hear her.

"- and whether you would be willing to call me _Irene_ in return," she finished.

He was still silent. The water babbled noisily, and a bird cried out among the trees, but the two humans seemed to have run out of words. She stepped past him and descended into the brook, balancing herself precariously on the stones.

"Irene," said a low and suddenly soft voice, leaving her breathless for a moment with a rush of affection.

Her name had never sounded quite like this before. She glanced back at him.

"Severus," she smiled to herself.

With a single jump, he caught up, and she let him take her hand and lead the way in the water until they reached the other shore.

Shortly, they were walking under the trees. It was Snape who spoke first.

"How are the herbs going to be dried?"

She was roused from thoughts totally unrelated to the plants.

"What do you mean?"

"Naturally or magically?"

The look on her face was reminiscent of Hogwarts: Most students had this look when they were asked to answer a question they had never thought about. But she was not a student; therefore she could turn the question back on him.

"Which method do you recommend?"

"I usually prefer naturally dried herbs," he answered. "A drying spell is a good option when the optimal conditions for natural drying cannot be guaranteed or when the dried plants are urgently needed. But the magic must not be overdone."

"They'll be dried naturally," Irene said quickly.

"Where?"

"There's a kitchen in the hospital where we can make potions," Irene replied gingerly. "They can dry there. I mean … they _will_ dry, won't they? What else could they do?"

Snape's lips curled up a bit.

"You were a Hufflepuff, weren't you?"

"So what?"

"I thought Hufflepuffs spent half of every Saturday in the greenhouses. Methods of drying various herbs are Professor Sprout's area of expertise."

"But you know how to do it as well," she stated with complete conviction.

"Yes."

They walked in silence for a few minutes.

"Irene," Snape began again.

"Yes?"

"Not that it matters much, but is there any way to avoid meeting Healer Sharp when I go to the hospital?"

"Will you show me how to dry the plants?" Irene beamed.

"I think I should."

"Oh, good. That is … I hope you don't mind. I don't want to rob you of your free time."

"I suppose I've been given into your service for the whole day."

Irene's face clouded over.

"You do know how to make one feel awful, Severus," she sighed.

"The plants must be dried immediately," said Snape after a pause. "Don't worry about the rest. You see, I'm ready to dare Hag Sharp's watchful eye even."

"Titania will be in her office. We don't need to go there," she said quietly. "If you are interested, her days off are Saturdays and Wednesdays. Mine are Sundays and Thursdays."

"You must be busy on Wednesdays. If she treats all convicts like vermin, she can't be popular."

"Come to me directly if you need anything," Irene said kindly. "Titania told you to come back in six weeks, didn't she?"

"For another dose of Control Solution, I suppose."

"Make sure you receive it on a Wednesday," she said.

It was mid-afternoon when they arrived at the camp. In the hospital's potion kitchen, they sorted the plants for drying. In the course of the next hour, Irene learned which plants could be dried simply on a tray and which ones had to be hung in a carefully chosen place tied into bundles or packed in small paper bags.

"I have one more request," she said when they finished. "Do you think you could help me put these ingredients into different containers, so they are not mixed up and are appropriately labelled when they are dry? Would you mind if I asked Mr Weasley to spare you again? I'll be working, but you could do it without me."

"On weekdays, my time is not really mine to give," Snape replied. "But I can do it at the weekend if you want me to – any time."

"That's very kind of you. But I'd rather ask Mr Weasley first."

Snape knew she was trying to secure another day away from the slave labour for him – and he also knew that her little tricks could not help him in the long run. For him, there was no escape. But he had already given up thinking more than a day ahead.

"As you wish," he said, "Irene."

At night, like every other night, he used Occlumency to close down his mind. It was the first time since his illness that he had failed.


	14. The Wolfsbane Potion

__Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling.__

****Too Deep for the Healing****

****Chapter 14****

__The Wolfsbane Potion__

That Thursday was the last of the glorious, sunny autumn days. The weather turned increasingly harsh, and the water in the bog became unpleasantly cold. The mist thickened and the damp air of the wetland and the frequent rains soaked the convicts' clothes, perhaps even their skins, and anti-cold herbs gained popularity.

Snape helped Irene put the dried plants into proper containers. In addition, he gave her tips for making certain potions and replacing some of the missing ingredients with available ones – those were ideas that her standard potions manual knew nothing about, and they proved rather useful. Other than that, nothing noteworthy happened in the coming days; nothing to break the monotony of his daily work and the dull fatigue of the weekends.

Then, on a Saturday morning, an owl brought him a note from Irene.

__Severus, please, come to my office as soon as you can.__

That was all it said, and Snape hurried to the hospital almost immediately. He saw Tanner just outside the building, smoking a cigarette. He was clearly on duty – the hospital was permanently patrolled by a guard. Tanner shot a filthy glance at Snape but said nothing. Snape entered and went up the stairs. The waiting room was empty, but someone was obviously with Irene in the consulting room. Through the door, Snape could hear voices, and the conversation sounded so heated that he began listening intently. Was someone – shouting?

He hesitated. Instinct told him to go and investigate – and after all, Irene had asked him to see her. But he was reluctant to break in upon a conversation she was having with one of her patients. The guard, too, was there to protect her. But then again, he was taking a cigarette break outside …

His hesitation ended abruptly when he heard a scream from inside. He tore the door open and saw Irene with Hunter the werewolf standing opposite her, yelling. Irene had apparently just freed her wrist from his hands.

"Manners, Hunter!" Snape said stepping behind the convict.

Hunter turned around.

"Mind your own business," he snarled.

"Severus," said Irene, "I'm so glad you're here. I need your help again."

"__I__ need help!" the werewolf screamed into her face. "You must sort out __my__ problem first!"

Snape seized Hunter's arm and dragged him away from Irene.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, looking at her, while holding the wriggling little wizard with firm hands.

"My potion …" Hunter whined.

"Yes, your potion," said Irene. "That's what we must talk about."

She turned to Snape.

"It's a very … special type of potion."

"Wolfsbane Potion," Snape replied.

Hunter stopped wriggling and gaped at him.

"How do you know?"

"Recognizing a werewolf," Snape answered, "is an OWL-level question at Hogwarts."

"I never went to Hogwarts," Hunter hissed. "Get your hands off me!"

"I will - if you promise to behave respectfully."

Hunter groaned something that Snape interpreted as the required promise, and released him from his grip. Hunter stepped away from Snape at once.

"Our order from Diagon Alley has finally arrived," Irene said. "The timing is perfect, since we need a new supply of Wolfsbane Potion today. Unfortunately, by some mistake, instead of Wolfsbane Potion, they've sent us only … wolfsbane."

She opened one of the cabinets that Snape knew already, and showed the two wizards a textile sack labelled 'wolfsbane'. It obviously contained the plant, not the potion.

"Why don't __you__ make the potion then?" Hunter barked. "The full moon is tonight, I need it!"

"Because I'm a healer, not a potion-maker," said Irene. "It's a very complicated potion, which I've never attempted to brew."

"Wolfsbane," Snape explained, "is a highly toxic plant, and the potion is lethal unless it is prepared perfectly. It's very easy to spoil it. An accidental change at any stage of the brewing or the presence of the smallest amount of foreign matter may upset the delicate equilibrium and arrest the process that neutralises the toxic effect of the plant -"

"Too many fancy words," Hunter muttered sulkily.

Snape raised his voice.

"To put it __simply__, any change to the recipe, even adding a morsel of sugar, would make the potion poisonous again. That's why it is never sweetened. "

"Could you help me, Severus?" Irene asked. "Will you make the potion for him? You're my last hope."

"__He__?" Hunter pointed a dirty finger at Snape.

"He's a potions expert," Irene explained.

"Order him to make it then!" the werewolf demanded before Snape could answer. "Don't ask! If you give him orders, he must obey!"

Snape's eyes flashed.

"Severus …" Irene said. "Help me, please."

"If you've got all the other ingredients as well," said Snape, "I'll make the potion for you."

Irene beamed at him.

"And how do you know it'll be good?" asked Hunter, who, a minute before, could have killed if Snape had refused the request. "How can we be sure he won't poison me?"

Snape looked down his nose at him.

"You either trust me or not."

"Don't be ridiculous," Irene snapped. "It'll be the best Wolfsbane Potion you've ever drunk."

When Hunter left, Irene sat down with a sigh of relief.

"He said if he didn't get the potion, he would break out of his hut tonight and attack me. Poor man! How painful it must be to turn into a werewolf! It sounds horrible, but he had never even heard about Wolfsbane Potion before being brought here."

"Why don't you just put him in his place?" Snape burst out.

"My patients are not only patients but prisoners as well," Irene replied. "Some of them feel guilty; others are angry and frustrated. What can I expect?"

"And what's your wand for?"

"My wand? For lots of things, healing included. But I'm not very good at hexes, jinxes or curses."

"Not very good?" Snape repeated with disbelief. "Irene, I'm talking about defending yourself! In a workplace like this, you must be tough."

"Like Titania?"

"I bet Hunter wouldn't dare to threaten __her__," said Snape.

Irene sighed again.

"I didn't tell you the full truth. 'Not very good' is an understatement. I'm rubbish at spells used for fighting. Even my wand, which is excellent for healing and various other types of magic, would become weak if I tried to use it to hurt anyone. Mr Ollivander says the wand chooses the witch. I suppose it suits me perfectly."

"You'd better find another job then and leave it to the hag to take care of this lot," Snape replied sardonically. "In the meantime, how about a simple Shield Charm? That wouldn't hurt the poor man who is attacking you, and you'd have time to shout for a guard at least. This building is guarded day and night."

"I know," Irene said resignedly. "I didn't consider the situation bad enough to invite Tanner in."

Snape stared at her.

"What's wrong with Tanner?"

"Are __you__ asking that?" she responded, slightly irritated. "You've met him yourself."

"But," - Snape was puzzled – "that was different. He'd skin __us__ alive with pleasure, but you're not a convict. He's supposed to protect you!"

"I guess he'd protect me," Irene answered. "But I want to avoid it if possible. Since he spent a week in this hospital, he's kept coming back … to me. It is very annoying."

"You can report him if he doesn't stop pestering you," Snape suggested. "He's got a boss."

Irene shrugged.

"I don't like him, that's all. But back to Hunter, his main threat was about tonight … If he doesn't get his potion, he'll be locked up, won't he?"

"I think he's locked up every month anyway," Snape said. "Let's see the ingredients for his potion."

She rose.

"What do you need? We've got our potions store refilled now."

Fortunately, the Wolfsbane Potion did not require many ingredients. It needed mainly wolfsbane (also known as aconite or monkshood) and a few other, common potion ingredients, serving the purpose of preventing the werewolf from being poisoned.

The real difficulty was in the manner of preparation. Working with wolfsbane, one had to be careful to avoid coming into direct contact with the plant parts or inhaling the fumes. Then all ingredients had to be cut up in a very peculiar way and measured with utmost precision. All parts of the wolfsbane plant had to be used in the potion, but different parts were put into the cauldron separately, in strict order. One tiny bit of a leaf mixed among the roots and added at the wrong time, for example, meant the end of the potion.

Timing was absolutely crucial – any ingredient added a few seconds later or a few seconds earlier than the required moment could prevent the potion from progressing to the next stage. Stirring the potion was so tricky that it could hardly be taught. One had to simply __feel__ the right speed and intensity. If not stirred enough, some ingredients would settle on the bottom of the cauldron and get burned. If stirred with too much force, the potion might even explode.

All the necessary ingredients were in stock. In the hospital's potions kitchen (it could not really be called a laboratory), Snape started preparing the potion immediately. It was Irene's job to ensure he was not disturbed by anything or anyone. He placed the cauldron over the fire and put on protective gloves to handle the poisonous plant. Making this potion had always required his undivided attention, and nowadays he was out of practice, too. But he readily shouldered the responsibility that brought him back into a familiar environment, where he was doing what he could do really well.

His hands had not yet forgotten anything. They cut up the plants with the same old precision. When he measured the ingredients, the scales proved his estimation skills were still accurate. Timing was a nerve-testing exercise, where irrevocable decisions had to be made quickly; but each good decision increased the sense of achievement that was secretly growing in him, though he did not have time to think about it yet. He was stirring the cauldron with just the right, neither too intense, nor too light movements. The hot liquid was bubbling away softly, giving delicate noises as though the evolving substance consented to his directions and even enjoyed being formed with such expert skill.

After several hours of intensive work, he wiped his forehead, and allowed himself a few gratifying minutes to admire the fruit of his efforts – the perfectly made Wolfsbane Potion. He did not regret giving up a part of his weekend - the day did not seem wasted at all. He was thinking of Irene, who had needed his help and whom he had not let down.

The potion was enough for two goblets – Hunter would not have time to drink more than that until the night; and even one gobletful was enough to make him a safe wolf, the second one would simply ensure that he did not feel even the mildest pain during the transformation. He filled a goblet with the steaming liquid and left it on the table; then he closed the cauldron with a lid thoroughly and placed it on the mantelpiece, where it would keep warm until the second dose was needed.

He checked that the window, situated near the fireplace, was properly closed. It was a chilly day, and even the solitary tree next to the building appeared to be shivering with cold.

Near the window, there was a tray on the mantelpiece with a cup of coffee and a sandwich, which Irene had brought him. Snape had not eaten since breakfast. He drank the coffee now and had a few bites of the sandwich before locking the kitchen and hurrying off.

He went to Hunter's hut to bring back the werewolf. While he had been brewing, patients had gathered in the waiting room, and Irene was busy, but Hunter was admitted almost immediately. Snape followed him – it did not seem wise to leave Hunter alone with her.

Irene hurriedly brought the goblet from the potions kitchen, one of whose doors was leading directly to her office.

"Did __he__ make it?" Hunter asked suspiciously.

"Yes," Irene replied calmly. "Drink it while it's hot."

"__He__ should taste it first," Hunter grunted, but Irene put the goblet into his hands.

"You won't be poisoned, don't worry," she said encouragingly.

Hunter mumbled a few more words, but lifted the goblet to his lips at last. His face disappeared behind the steam as he took the first gulp; and Irene and Snape did not see at once what was happening. But then the goblet fell out of the werewolf's hands, his features contorted with a terrible pain and his jaw dropped wide open.

"Bezoar, quickly" said Snape, himself growing deadly pale, as he caught the falling body.

But Irene did not need to be told. Within moments, she was there with the bezoar. Snape was holding Hunter's head while she was feeding him the stone.

"Fetch the nurse," she said as soon as the bezoar had gone down Hunter's throat.

Snape ran.

He returned with the nurse, but no one seemed to need him any more. He was left alone in the office while the two witches were tending to Hunter in one of the wards. He remained standing over the spilled Wolfsbane Potion, clutching the desk for support and shaking all over. How had it happened? He had been absolutely certain that the potion was perfect. He still could not recall any suspicious signs. Each stage of the brewing had taken place exactly as it had to, and the result had appeared to satisfy all criteria (and he had never taken those lightly) – yet, something had gone wrong, abominably, disastrously wrong. How had he made such a gross mistake, and why had he not recognized it in time?

He picked up the goblet. Some of the potion was still at the bottom: not much, but more than enough to kill a person. He stared at the liquid. The elegant thing would be to drink it up instantly; but he could not stop staring although his eyes and his head began aching.

The door opened and Irene entered, followed by an officer whose face was covered with a rash.

"Severus," Irene said gently, "I have to see a patient."

Snape could hear the distress in her tone.

"Of course," he muttered.

Snape left the room, but he did not leave the hospital. He sat down in the waiting room, the goblet still in his hands. He did not look at anyone; in fact, he hardly realized that there were others in the room with him, and he did not see Irene glancing in his direction every time her door opened. He did not notice when the last patient left, only that suddenly Irene was standing in front of him.

"He's alive," said the quiet healer voice that he had got so used to in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. "I've just been to see him again. The worst didn't happen."

As she spoke, she tried to take the goblet from him, but Snape was clasping it tightly. The guard on duty was passing by, his footsteps echoing round the room.

"May I go in?" Snape asked in a subdued voice.

"Yes … yes, of course," Irene answered. "I'm sorry, I'm confused, too."

In the office, she gave him a goblet of Calming Draught. He took a sip.

"It's not the first time I've made this potion … and not even the second," he began. "I … wouldn't have let it out of my hands if I had had the slightest doubt."

Irene drew closer to him.

"I know," she replied sympathetically. "But it's an especially tricky potion and you haven't had a chance to make any potions since May… and you've been under a lot of strain. You probably need therapy yourself. It was a stroke of luck that Hunter didn't die immediately. We had enough time to save him."

"__You__ saved him," Snape corrected. "I only … made the mistake. I wish I had tasted the drink first."

"There must be safer tests than that," Irene said. "Why don't you put that goblet down? Drink your Calming Draught … you'll feel a little better."

But Snape did not want to feel better.

"It has changed," he said. "Looking at this liquid now, I would never let anyone drink it. It seemed normal when I finished brewing it."

Irene glanced into the goblet.

"It's practically nothing," she said. "How can you draw any conclusions from __this__?"

"I can see it," he answered. "I can see the difference."

He carefully shook the goblet.

"Is there a unicorn horn in this place?"

"Yes, I think there is one, why?"

"I want to analyse this sample."

With an uncertain expression, she gave him the long, slim horn.

"What are you expecting to find?" she asked. "The only poisonous ingredient in the potion was the wolfsbane plant."

"As a teacher, I saw many cauldrons of badly made potions," he replied. "It was always easy to pinpoint the mistake … But something is very strange here. I've been thinking about it all this time… I must understand what happened."

He poured the contents of the goblet into the unicorn horn.

"Can I borrow your wand?"

"__Perseco__," he murmured a second later, pointing Irene's wand at the contents of the horn.

The liquid started whirling round, and slowly it separated into several thin layers.

"I need some goblets or cups," Snape said.

Irene put several small cups on the desk next to him. With a sure hand, it was possible to pour the magically separated components into different containers, but Snape's fingers were trembling with nervousness. He took another sip from the Calming Draught. Irene noticed the problem.

"Let me see your hand," she said.

She took his hand between hers and began massaging it. Snape felt as though the blood circulation all over his body had been refreshed and invigorated. Irene repeated the treatment with the other hand. The trembling stopped, and he was now able to safely pour each layer of the potion into a different cup. He glared at a sticky white mass among the components.

"Sugar," he announced.

"Sugar?" she echoed, perplexed. "How is it possible? The cauldron and the goblet were clean … I myself checked them."

Of course, they had been clean; otherwise he would not have used them. Snape turned round and dashed into the potions kitchen. The place was significantly cooler now than it had been before – this circumstance was easily explained by the fact that the window was slightly ajar, banging periodically against the window frame. The wind blustered outside, and the tree branch nearest the window was hanging half-broken, in the manner of Nearly Headless Nick's head. On the floor of the kitchen, Snape glimpsed the shards of a broken cup. But the cauldron was on the mantelpiece, where he had left it.

He carefully lifted the lid – despite the open window, the contents of the cauldron had stayed warm. A mere glance at the potion was enough to fill Snape with relief. It looked and smelled exactly as true, perfectly brewed Wolfsbane Potion had to look and smell. He took a sample and put it into the unicorn horn. There was no foreign matter in it.

"This is the real potion," he said with renewed confidence, "and it will work. Hunter must receive it immediately!"

He peered through the window. How much time did they have?

"Severus … Are you quite … __certain__?"

The question hurt him, though Irene did her best to sound kind and tactful.

"Do you want me to taste it?"

"No," she answered, "it's for werewolves only."

"The potion was correctly made," he said gravely. "The dose that nearly killed Hunter was contaminated somehow, but this cauldron contains the original, pure Wolfsbane Potion, and it must be used. It is still warm enough."

He took a clean goblet and poured the potion into it.

"I'm afraid he will not want to drink it," Irene said anxiously. "He won't trust either of us. But even as a werewolf, he can't be really dangerous when he is so ill and weak."

Snape was not going to give up easily.

"Hunter fears the pain of changing. In his current condition, that's the last thing he needs. Besides, if we let him lose faith in the potion, he may never be willing to take it again."

"He believes the poisoning was intentional … because he is a werewolf."

"He's quite right," Snape replied, storming out of the kitchen. "__Someone__ did want to poison him. The sugar in the potion was no accident. He'd better make a list of his enemies first thing in the morning. Where is he?"

Apart from Hunter's health and the safety of everyone near the werewolf, it was his honour as a potioneer that was at stake. He had little time left to prove that the potion was good, but he was determined to prove it – or die trying. Literally.

She showed him the way to the ward.

"You stay out of here," Snape said with the unmistakable air of a Hogwarts Headmaster, as he turned the doorknob.

"You forget that I'm the healer," she snapped. "The main responsibility is mine."

Her tone left no doubt that any further argument would only be a waste of precious time. They entered the ward together.

As Irene had predicted, Hunter refused to take the potion. He had a greyish-pale colour, and all he could do was pressing his lips together and shaking his head, but the refusal could hardly have been clearer. He was visibly afraid of Snape and would not listen to anything he was saying.

They were running out of time. Snape knew the potion would soon become too cold to be of any use.

"Give me your wand," Snape whispered to Irene.

But his request was ignored.

"Give me that goblet," Irene whispered back.

With the potion in her hand, she tried her own, gentler way to persuade the reluctant patient, whose life she had just saved. She was at least able to make Hunter look at her, which was more than what Snape had achieved, and she used this achievement to her advantage at once.

"Let's see if we can trust this medicine," she said abruptly, taking a spoon from her pocket.

Snape made a sudden movement as though she wanted to stop her, but it was too late. She quickly swallowed a spoonful of the potion and shuddered violently – the Wolfsbane Potion tasted anything but pleasant. Not entirely without effort, she smiled nevertheless.

"I confess I have had tastier drinks in my life," she said to Hunter, who let out a deep sigh and nodded slowly.

Irene helped him drink; then she cast a diagnostic spell. Snape stepped back, but did not leave the ward. Irene was talking to the patient.

They were still there when the transformation began.

"It's not going to be a pretty sight," Snape warned, pulling Irene away from the sickbed.

Even an ordinary wolf was a wolf, after all.

"He's in no condition to hurt us if we don't stand too close," Irene said. "Perhaps it would mean something to him if he did not have to be alone for once."

Snape had no idea if Hunter could appreciate the presence of the two of them in such a moment, and he, personally, would much rather have left, but since Irene stayed, he stayed, too. The change was smooth and apparently painless. The skinny wolf gave a single sad and feeble howl before lowering his head onto the pillow with a wounded look in his eyes.


	15. Darkness

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 15**

_Darkness_

On Sunday, Snape had no official work to do. He could have rested at last – but he woke up after only a few hours of sleep. He had spent the night in the hospital, and not only because of the wolf, but because of Irene as well. Swallowing that spoonful of Wolfsbane Potion had its risks (even though the substance was not a poison), and Snape had not approved of her choice. But she had tolerated it fairly well. Of course, she had been wide awake and alert all night – the potion that helped werewolves keep their consciousness would keep other people from falling asleep. Later, a severe headache had started, and Snape had had to whip up an especially strong painkiller for her, but on the whole, it could have been much worse. Still, she had good reason to be glad that the following day was her day off.

As for Snape, he had not needed any magical substances to stay awake. Even when he was in bed at last, he kept thinking about the poisoning. Irene had told him that several members of the staff, as well as the convicts who knew what Hunter was (he had not quite managed to keep his condition secret), had complained about having to live in the dangerous vicinity of a werewolf; and there had been suggestions that Hunter should not be on the loose among people most of whom did not even have wands to defend themselves. Thus Irene thought someone had taken the opportunity to get rid of him once and for all; and Snape agreed that many of the convicts would have no scruples about killing a werewolf when it was so easy.

Obviously, the poisoner had to know not only about the Wolfsbane Potion being prepared in the hospital but also about the fact that sugar would make the potion lethal. Unfortunately, anyone who had been outside Irene's office in the morning could have learned that – Snape himself had shouted out the information concerning the sugar. It was not a secret – a recent handbook on potions contained a long list of substances that could be used to the same end. But the fact that the poisoner had chosen _sugar _pointed towards the conversation that had taken place in the morning as the source of the person's potions knowledge. Of course, the poisoner had not _necessarily_ been listening at the door – perhaps Hunter had told someone what he had heard in the hospital.

Hunter might compile a list of his enemies as Snape had suggested before, but the more Snape was thinking about the incident, the more certain he became that there was something wrong with their approach to the matter. However tempting the opportunity to kill the werewolf with sugar might appear, there were significant risks involved. The perpetrator had visited the potions kitchen after Snape had left and before Irene had picked up the goblet. She had seen no one there, nor had anyone entered the kitchen from her office. By that time, however, anyone opening the main door of the kitchen would have been seen by a number of other people. It could easily be checked – but a criminal would have to be rather stupid to enter the scene of the crime in the presence of witnesses.

The tree with the half-broken branch, the broken coffee cup and the window that Snape had closed but later found open indicated that the person might have left through the window. But why would someone who had already dared to enter through the door leave through the window? Could the person have used the tree and the window both ways? In that case, someone had had to open a securely fastened window from _outside_. Apart from that, the person had willingly risked being discovered in a rather suspicious position - somehow Snape doubted that any of his fellow convicts could properly Disillusion themselves without their wands.

For all the risks taken and despite the resulting confusion, the attempt to kill Hunter – if that had been the goal - was a surprisingly feeble one. The poisoning had taken place in a hospital and in the presence of a healer, which had significantly improved Hunter's chances of survival. There was only one thing that the poisoner, who apparently had not realized there was more of the potion than only a gobletful, could have taken for granted – it was that Snape would be blamed for what had happened either as a careless potion-maker or as a murderer (which he was, according to the Wizengamot's judgement).

If that was the case, then Snape had to face yet another possibility: that the primary target of the poisoner was not Hunter, but the potion-maker himself (or maybe Irene, but that seemed less likely). Snape was certainly looked upon as a sort of scapegoat at hand who could be hated and condemned by his fellow-convicts for their imprisonment. The vanquishing of the Dark Lord was a feat for which Potter received all the glory from the victors and – ironically – Snape got all the hostility from the losers.

He wondered if there would really be an investigation. No deaths occurred after all, and the victim was only a convict.

On the one hand, Snape did not like the idea that the incident would go down in the hospital records as a nearly fatal _accident_. It would leave his name with yet another blemish – that of the failed potioneer. Irene's healer reputation might be damaged, too. As she had said, the main responsibility was hers, and she had trusted Snape's expertise almost blindly.

On the other hand, an official investigation might not be better. Unless the poisoner was found, only his name and Irene's would ever be connected with the poisoning. Even though there was no direct evidence against either of them, he, as the potion-maker, would naturally fall under suspicion.

These thoughts occupied Snape's mind on Sunday morning and afternoon, and finally, in an attempt to get rid of them, he decided to take a walk as far away from everyone else as he could.

He ended up near the bog. It was far from being an ideal spot for a walk, but it was definitely desolate at weekends. The silence and the solitude gave the place a different atmosphere; one that Snape had never experienced on weekdays. Yet, the silence and the solitude gave him no real comfort. The landscape was not particularly admirable, and there were no more herbs anywhere, only fallen leaves - there was little to divert his thoughts.

The wind became stronger and sharper, and the dry leaves rustled in the air. Then a tentative, half-hearted rain began. It was time to start wearing the thick winter cloak, Snape thought. He had better go back to the hut now. He would have to return to the bog all too soon anyway.

He heard a suspicious noise perhaps – or maybe he only _sensed_ that something was wrong. He wheeled round swiftly, as though he had expected an attack. It was like glimpsing flashes of the not so distant past. Hooded figures were running towards him, each waving a "weapon" in his hands. Naturally, the hoods were not real Death Eater hoods, only makeshift copies, and the weapons were sticks and rods rather than wands – but the meaning of the Death Eater symbols was not lost on him.

At least they could not quite catch him unawares.

Snape had had his share of running before, and not only his elderly colleagues at Hogwarts, but Harry Potter, too, had met his match in him, despite being twenty years his junior. But these were _real_ enemies. He would not be driven into the bog by them; he would not do them the favour of drowning in front of their eyes. His anger was stronger than his fear; instead of running, he stood, with the bog behind him, determined to fight back.

He had no weapons. All he could hope for was a form of wandless magic. Of course, eye-contact was out of the question. The hoods prevented it, and he could not have stared down four or five opponents simultaneously anyway. He had his anger, however, and anger could go a long way towards producing magic.

For the moment it was just bare hands against rods and sticks. Snape was quick – avoiding the blows was more in line with his skills than seriously fighting back in the Muggle way. The hooded figures laughed. They stood around him in a semi-circle now, stopping menacingly for effect, obviously. But a few seconds' time was exactly what Snape needed.

He stared at the largest rod used as a weapon by his opponents. He focused his mind on a non-verbal spell. Once. Twice. Thrice. Permanently. The world was closed out. He heard nothing of the taunts shouted at him. He felt neither the wind nor the rain. He saw nothing but the lifeless object that had to submit itself to his will.

Then the attack started in earnest. But the instant the Death Eaters charged, the rod that Snape had jinxed flew out of the hand of its owner and began a series of actions on its own. Snape could not control its movements, but the jinx was undoubtedly an effective one. The rod was whirling round with mind-boggling speed, and when it hit someone, the odds that it was a Death Eater were five to one.

The psychological impact was even better. As soon as the gang realized they were facing _magic_, their confidence was all but completely gone. They backed away from the violent piece of wood whirling between them and Snape. He, however, knew that another trick was necessary if he wanted to keep up the effect.

The speed of the wooden rod was already decreasing, and it was flying towards Snape. He was about to duck, but he changed his mind. He reached for the rod instead and caught it. It was in his hands, which had recently learned to communicate with various wood types so successfully. He pointed it, like an enormous, rough wand, at the attackers.

He did not know if the rod would really work for him, but he knew he could not fire five spells at the same time even if he had a real wand. Therefore he turned the rod in the direction of a leafless bush next to the Death Eaters.

"_CONFRINGO_!"

The force of the explosion shook him, and its light blinded his vision for an instant. He felt splinters of wood piercing his hand as the rod was shooting out of it. Then he saw the retreating Death Eaters, and he caught sight of a bolt of red light hurled at him from another direction. For a short moment, it seemed like an aftereffect of the explosion. In the next moment, however, he recognized it - but he had no time to duck.

He came to at the sensation of a large dose of cold and stinking water poured on his face and all over his body. He could not see anything – it took him several seconds to realize he was blindfolded. He could hear hostile laughter, and soon another dose of the same dirty water hit him, some of it finding its way into his mouth, making him choke. Laughter roared up again, as Snape struggled to breathe. He was lying face up on muddy soil, his arms tied tightly behind his back.

"Good morning, Snape," said an ice-cold voice.

"Evening, I should say," rejoined a different one.

Another peal of laughter. Snape was desperately trying to reconstruct what had happened. The otherwise successful Blasting Curse had been too much for the piece of wood he had used as a wand. Its splinters were still in his hand. But the explosion had frightened the attackers, too. Who had Stunned him?

"It's your turn to greet us, Snape" the previous voice said.

For good measure, he was given a painful kick. He groaned before he could stop himself.

"He still says nothing," someone said with pretended indignation. "Well, well … some more teaching may be useful."

There were more kicks from several directions simultaneously, until Snape gave up all attempts to defend himself and lay quite still. He was sure they still had no wands – they would not resort to kicking if they could use the Cruciatus Curse. Where had the Stunning Spell come from?

"Wait, we are not supposed to kill him!" yelled one of the voices. "Where would the fun be in that?"

The kicks ceased.

"We just have to accept that our guest has no manners."

"But we do have a surprise gift for him."

The laughter this time was even more chilling than before. Snape knew enough about Death Eater traditions to realize that the kicking had been nothing in comparison with what was still in store for him. He tried to gather his strength. Even if he was wandless, he still had his magic, after all. But the attack had already weakened him, and the blindfold was proof that the attackers were not taking chances.

He could feel someone bending over him, the person's breath hot on his face.

"We've heard you didn't like your Dark Mark, Snape," a reedy voice said quietly. "We've heard it was with your help that Potter eliminated all of them."

"But he ended up with us here," another voice remarked.

"No one likes traitors," hissed the previous voice. "Not even the traitors who betray the other side…"

"Perhaps they still need a spy among us."

"Then he'll have something to report now."

"If he gets to make another report yet."

"But back to our gift," said the voice that was panting into his face. "We thought we'd give you something you might like better than your Dark Mark, Snape."

Snape felt the chilly, late-autumn air bite into his body as his robes were cut open by a knife. The cold tip of the metal grazed his skin. Terror pressed his stomach into a tight little knot, and he seemed to be choking again. He tried to peer through the blindfold, but the cloth was thick and dark. He knew if he began to beg for mercy, it would only increase the attackers' delight. Shouting for help would be of no avail either. Not even the explosion had attracted anyone's attention.

"Is it 'sneak' or 'traitor' then?"

"Why, 'traitor' is longer."

Laughter.

Then Snape felt the tip of the knife again, this time cutting a vertical line deep into his skin, drawing blood, oddly warm on his cold chest. He yelled out in pain, to the obvious amusement of his tormentors.

"I see you already like our surprise," said the reedy voice, cutting a horizontal line on top of the vertical one.

Snape could not suppress another scream, and in the next minute, he was gagged, too. The disgusting piece of cloth in his mouth must have been dipped into the dirty water first.

"I can concentrate better if you're not so loud," the reedy voice continued. "But don't worry, the first letter is ready."

* * *

><p>Many miles away, Professor McGonagall slowly opened the door of an empty classroom. It was Sunday, and she did not have to visit any classrooms, but she could not resist the urge to personally have a look at the problem Filch had mentioned.<p>

A broken window. There had been many of them in the castle recently, but they had all been repaired. This one had been left out somehow, as the caretaker had discovered. Filch did not like dealing with broken glass, and Minerva had to admit that without magic, it could be a bothersome task to replace such a huge window pane.

Still, a broken window did not warrant the personal attention of the Headmistress. It would have been enough to send a house-elf to the spot if she had not been curious. Was it the very same classroom that she was thinking about? Was it _that_ window?

It was. The hole in the glass had a clearly recognizable shape – the shape of a human figure. Minerva stared at it with a morbid fascination: It awakened a sense of remorse in her even though she knew she had no objective reason to feel guilty. No one could blame her for what had happened by that window – it was not her fault. It might even be all right now if … well, if that Severus-shaped hole did not signify the _still existing void_ that the ex-headmaster had left behind on his departure from Hogwarts.

There was no portrait of Severus Snape at the castle – after all, he was alive in a faraway place that might be worse than death. It was only the hole in the window – no canvas, no colours, no substance even, just an empty space marking his absence, a space no one else could fill. It was an irregular memento, but so typical of him - Severus had never truly fitted in.

Yet - she had never imagined Severus could be missed so much. With all his eccentricities, he had been an integral part of Hogwarts, quite like Dumbledore – or Minerva herself. And it was not only his dry sarcasm or his ominous dark glance that she missed – it was also his knowledge, his expertise, his keen intelligence that so often made him see the very essence of a complicated problem immediately.

Severus had finally been beaten – beaten by himself more than by anything else. What could be in those memories that he was guarding so? Harry had seen them, but he could not recall anything that he or Minerva considered worth such a price. He wondered if Dumbledore could explain the mystery – the real Dumbledore, of course, because the portrait had been conspicuously silent lately, almost as silent as the Severus-shaped hole in the window.

Suddenly, she was struck by a memory of her own – something she had not thought about during the recent months, something that she would have to tell Severus. He might know about it already - but what if he did not? Now that she was thinking about the question, it seemed increasingly possible that he did not know it yet. She whirled round and hurried towards the circular office – then slowed down again. Even if Severus knew, he would not care perhaps … he might refuse it plainly. Besides, the moment was most inopportune. Severus was out of her reach, and he could not use the information now even if he wanted to.

* * *

><p>Snape had fainted again, but his tormentors poured more of the dirty water on him until he regained consciousness. The torture seemed to last forever; they intended him to die this way. Finally, after what appeared days to Snape, the reedy voice hissed 'ready'.<p>

"Let's show him," someone suggested. "Let's see how he likes it."

There was a momentary silence.

"You don't think he's dangerous!"

"No," someone else said. "It's enough if he can feel it. He knows what's happening and why. Am I right, Snape?"

Yet another kick. The brute was correct. Snape did not have to see anything to know what had been carved into his skin. He was choking and shivering.

"Say thank you to the artist, Snape."

The cloth was removed from his mouth.

"Did you hear me? We expect you to thank us and to praise this hard work."

They laughed again.

"Will you say it or not?"

Snape pressed his lips together. He heard a whistling sound and braced himself for the lashes of a whip. They fell on his wounds, his face, everywhere... But he still did not shout. He would not give them the pleasure of hearing him utter a cry another time, much less the words they were demanding from him. How much was he able to bear?

"WHAT'S THIS?"

All of a sudden, the Death Eaters jumped, and the spell that was sent flying across the air hit Snape in the eyes. This time he did cry out. The pain was sharp and piercing, making the blindfold seem even darker.

"They've run away," said a rough voice a few moments later. "What were they up to?"

"One's still here," replied another voice.

They were close now, and Snape could feel a boot touching his side.

"Hey, get up!"

Snape recognized Tanner.

"He's drunk," Tanner said, his voice heavy with badly disguised glee. "Disgusting!"

"Some illegal revelry; isn't it?" said the other voice, which must have belonged to another guard. "We must report him. He'll tell us who his hooded mates were when he gets sober."

Snape did not have the strength to protest. His eyes still hurt horribly.

"I won't touch drunkards. His supervisor should pick him up. I think it's Weasley."

"He'll be pleased."

Laughing, the guards left. There was once again silence around him, and he was silent, too, deadly, bitterly silent.

Aching all over, cold on the wet, muddy soil, impregnated with the smell of the bog and just half-covered by damp, dirty and torn clothes - whether it would be the cold, the bleeding, some quick infection or sheer shame that would eventually kill him did not matter much. But how could it be that after all those years of guilt and atonement, after everything he had learned, done and suffered, he would end it all on square one again, the helpless, humiliated victim of aggressive bullies, hurt, beaten and laughed at, and finally left alone in utter darkness?

He did not want to succumb to the tears trickling treacherously from the corners of his eyes and he reminded himself that there was nothing to cry for, nothing that mattered, nothing he should be sorry to leave behind when he had to go. He had survived Nagini's bite for a chance to taste life once more. It had been a mistake - that was clear now. He did not even stir when he heard the characteristic swish of a broomstick above. If one of his tormentors was coming back, he would not find much pleasure in tormenting him any more. If it was someone else, they would do well to leave him in peace at last.

The broomstick must have landed nearby, and Snape could hear light, hurrying footsteps, then the sound of someone falling on the ground by his side. The hand that touched him was tender and familiar. But the touch gave him pain.


	16. Infusion of Dittany

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 16**

_Infusion of Dittany_

"Severus!" said a voice with a gasp, and the blindfold was removed from his eyes.

It did not make any difference.

"Can't see … anything," he murmured, shivering with cold. "My eyes-"

He broke off. He had lost his eyesight.

Irene muttered a spell, and Snape had the impression he was enwrapped in a piece of light, soft magic.

"What was … that?"

"First aid. It stabilizes your condition and stops any infection until you can receive a more thorough treatment. Hold on to me now-"

"I don't think I'm fit to be touched," he cut in, "and keep your wand at the ready, they may come back -"

"We're going to Disapparate," she explained, as she turned him on his side and cut the rope off his wrists.

"You can't … Apparate … here."

"A healer has licence to lift the ban in emergency situations. I'll have to send a report, that's all."

She carefully moved his hands and examined his legs to check if there were any fractures.

"Can you stand?"

With her help, he got up painfully.

"Good. We are leaving, hold on."

His arms were numb, but hers held him firmly during the Apparition. Landing on solid ground again, he endeavoured to steady himself and to look as calm and collected as possible; after all, he could not know how many people might be watching them at the moment. The first aid charm must have been quite strong, but standing on his feet was one thing, walking was quite another. Cold and disoriented in complete darkness, he had to rely on Irene – she was his last connection with a sinking reality. He expected to be led to the hospital, but the short path they followed was unfamiliar and so was the house that they entered. They were greeted by the excited hooting of an owl.

"What is this place?"

"It's my place," she answered. "It's the house that I rent in the village. Here you can wait until you get better."

Snape wondered how long it would take for him to get even a little better; but going back to the camp in that condition would have been another humiliating experience, and he welcomed the chance to put it off at least. Soon he felt the inviting heat of burning fire coming from her fireplace as he sank into an armchair. Then a light, fresh breeze appeared in the room, like a caress, – the sensation caused by the spell removing the mud, the dirt and the dried blood from his clothes and his skin. It was followed by a general spell aimed at his wounds. But his robes were still torn, even ragged, and damp; and the smell of the bog was still in his nose.

"Who did this?" she asked.

"Revengeful Death Eaters… they readily believe what the Wizengamot could not believe. They had a knife. And later Tanner came with another guard … One of them sent a curse at my eyes."

"Then most of your injuries will be non-magical ones. I can deal with those easily. Hopefully, your eyes will be all right, too. It'll probably take some time though… I will examine you in a few minutes, but you must get warm first. Here are some blankets … Can you undress by yourself? I'll prepare the necessary medications… and I'll get something dry for you to wear."

But Snape did not care for the cleaning charm or the fire and the blankets. He wanted water … tangible water and plenty of it immediately. She did not argue, just led him into the bathroom and left him alone there.

Slowly, he peeled off what had remained of his torn, stained clothes, the rags of which were sticking into his open wounds all over. He felt strong, almost sickening disgust as his fingers traced the hideous word the wounds on his chest displayed. He wished he could somehow hide it from Irene, but he needed a healer's help. She would heal him quickly and completely. He was able to endure physical pain if he had to, but he could not afford a long illness, and the possibility of having to bear, perhaps forever, the marks left by the vengeance of some petty Death Eater underlings was worse than the pain. The scars would remind him every single day of what had happened by the bog. He knew exactly what it would be like – he had lived long enough with the Dark Lord's Dark Mark on his arm.

He clenched his teeth. Even simple movements required serious effort now, and the contact with water added to his pains. Yet, no amount of water could wash off the attackers' touches, the memory of what he had suffered. He continued feeling cold and contaminated when, with only a warm blanket wrapped around him, he followed Irene back to the room where the fire was.

She made him sit down on what seemed to be a properly made up bed (she was apparently converting her home into a hospital for his sake), and she brought him a goblet of freshly brewed warming potion to drink. The potion was perfect – it had the required lukewarm temperature, warming him up magically rather than otherwise as he was drinking. The shivering stopped and it made him feel a little more human.

"I must find out what spell damaged your eyes before I start treating you. The diagnostic spell will probably hurt at some point, but we can't avoid it. Are you ready?"

He nodded. For some reason, her goodness seemed almost as difficult to bear as the cruelty of others.

She was muttering spells he did not know, while the diagnostic magic was scanning his body. A few seconds later he felt the sharp pain in his eyes again. He flinched.

"I'm sorry," she said. "But it's all right now."

The pain was immediately over.

"The damage isn't permanent – you'll get back your vision in a few hours. I hoped it would be so… I suppose temporary blinding can be passed off as a disciplinary measure, while causing permanent harm would be difficult to explain away. Even so, you need professional treatment."

"How did you find me?" he asked abruptly.

"Tanner alerted us," she explained. "He came to Mr Weasley's office to say someone had collapsed drunk by the bog. I happened to be there, too, and when I realized the guard was talking about you, I was sure that he was wrong and that you needed medical assistance."

"Wrong…" Snape muttered. "He stood close enough to kick me, but he saw none of these wounds. Of course."

"So I told Mr Weasley to leave the matter to me."

"And he _did_? He let you go there _alone_?"

"I can be more useful to you than he would be."

Snape had yet another question, but her hand lightly touched his eyelids.

"I'm going to wash your eyes with infusion of dittany," she said. "Then I will put a bandage over them. They must be kept covered until the morning."

The infusion was neither too cold, nor too hot, but just the right temperature; and her movements were precise and gentle. Under the bandage later, he could feel his eyes relax. With another touch, she made him lie down.

"I'm going to treat your wounds now," she said.

He could feel a soft, wet piece of cloth under his left eye, right where he had been hit the hardest. Irene was murmuring an incantation. She was using the same infusion that she had used on his eyes. As she was carefully rubbing the probably blackened skin, the infusion trickled down his temple, and the pain seemed to be washed off. She continued with the under-eye area on the other side; then she wiped his forehead, his temples, his cheeks, his nose and his chin.

"Does it feel better?" she asked.

"Yes," he whispered in a hoarse voice.

It was true even though many other parts of his body were still aching.

Murmuring various healing spells, she continued with his neck, spending a long time cleaning the snake-bite scar and the skin around the scar before she carefully folded the blanket at his waist and went on to work on his shoulders, arms, hands and chest. A shudder ran through him as though an electric shock: a shudder of surprise perhaps … it was not unpleasant.

Then the murmur abruptly stopped; and Snape immediately remembered what had been carved into his skin, and he felt the blood rush into his face.

"You know…" she began slowly, but did not continue the sentence.

"What were you saying?" he muttered, sure that she had swallowed a comment about the word.

She apparently hesitated before answering.

"You have changed since May," she said finally. "Your shoulders have broadened... and you've become more muscular."

Her reply was so unexpected that he wondered if she was being serious. Perhaps he had indeed become physically stronger (his body had not been broken by hard labour), but he thought it strange that it should be mentioned in this hour of dire defeat, and he did not know how to respond. He found himself wishing, quite ardently, that he could also see her. She had too much advantage, too much power over him ... Perhaps he should ask her to close her eyes. But he did not say anything and she went on murmuring gently, washing him meticulously, healing the appalling wounds and banishing the pain as she proceeded.

Interestingly, it was not only the physical pain that was gradually reduced all over his body - she seemed to be wiping the wounds of humiliation off his soul, an achievement that, as Snape knew without doubt, could not be attributed to any potion.

It was an immensely relaxing sensation, and yet, as she was progressing inch by inch on his body, Snape began to feel a new type of tension building up inside him. Deprived of his sight, he was becoming increasingly conscious of the other senses. He was aware of little nuances in her voice that he would not have noted otherwise, and he grew hypersensitive to touch. From time to time, he could feel her hand on his skin. These touches were so casual, so light and so inevitable that she probably did not notice them, but _he_ - he registered every passing instance of direct contact with her hand with an extra heartbeat.

Her movements slowed down a little, and the cloth with the healing potion lingered on certain spots, as though she was trying to give him time to get used to being touched. Their hands reached the blanket around him at the same time.

"I'm healing your wounds," she said without changing the tone in which she had murmured the spells. "But you need to trust me. No one is going to hurt you or to laugh at you here. You may be ill, you may have made a mistake… you may have been hurt … but you are safe here, completely safe – even without your usual … defences."

After a few moments of tense silence (Snape closed his eyes behind the bandage), the blanket obediently slipped aside, and she continued washing his wounds and bruises, the traces of kicks and blows, his whole aching body.

A clock was ticking quietly somewhere, but time seemed to have stopped still. The world around him was reduced to her touch, her murmuring voice and the strong aroma of dittany that they both inhaled. Snape tried to breathe deeply and slowly, but his heart was beating fast, and his breathing wanted to follow that crazy rhythm. His cheeks were hot with mortification. Where _would_ that lead if he was not in such a miserable state at the moment? He reminded himself that what was happening could happen only because he _was_ in that miserable state: injured and beaten. She was healing his wounds. As a _healer_. He had better bear that in mind.

"How are you feeling now?" she asked in her professional healer voice, as she withdrew her hands from him and covered him with the blanket once more. If she had noticed anything she successfully concealed it.

He was feeling much better. Refreshed and clean, too. But he was not ready to speak yet.

"These wounds will heal without traces," she continued. "You only need to sleep. A good night's rest is essential if you want to recover. This blanket has the power to speed up the healing process. It was a present that Charity brought me from one of her many journeys."

"I thought I must go … back," he said, finding his voice at last.

"I'd sooner return my diploma than let you go away in this condition," she answered. "You'll be just fine when you wake up."

"They will be looking for me."

"I sent Mr Weasley a message. They won't look for you tonight. But you must be hungry and thirsty. I'll bring you something to eat and drink."

"No … no. I couldn't eat now… What will you say if they ask you why you didn't send me to the hospital?"

"I thought it wiser to keep you away from the bullies for the time of the treatment," she replied. "It's a perfectly legitimate concern in such cases."

"You've gone to too much trouble on my behalf. Today was your weekend."

"You are in a friend's house," Irene said kindly.

He heard her leave the room and he spent some time thinking about what she had said. Friend… He was used to the idea that most other people would tend to hurt or to reject him and he had to be ready to defend himself any time. Kindness had always come to him as a surprise. Like Lily's … Never for a moment had he thought he could take her kindness for granted – and had he not been right? Yet, Lily had tried to stand up for him in front of half of Hogwarts – but he had only felt the pain of humiliation, which her presence had made even worse, and the certainty that he would lose her to Potter – and how had he paid for her friendship then?

Dumbledore … Perhaps others would not regard Dumbledore's treatment of him as kindness; but initially, when Dumbledore had _only_ scolded him, had _only_ shamed him into a bitter realization and recruited him to help protect Lily, instead of killing him, capturing him or handing him over to the aurors, it had been as much kindness as he had been able to take.

He had deserved Dumbledore's harsh words, as he would have deserved all the bad things that he had expected, too. And he had kept expecting the worst from others, most of all from Harry Potter, because he was a Potter; James and Lily at the same time; and because, if anyone, Lily's son had the right to hate him … He had never wanted him to know why ... but he had seen to it that Lily's son would hate him.

He heard Irene's approaching footsteps and he was roused from his thoughts. She entered and handed him a pair of hospital pyjamas, which had just been sent by the nurse, who always spent the night in the hospital.

"I think I can charm your robes back into shape," she announced. "You'll be able to wear them in the morning. Or I can ask Mr Weasley to send you some new robes as soon as he gets back to the camp tomorrow. Sleep well."

She was about to leave again.

"Irene…"

"Yes?"

"I don't want to seem ungrateful," he muttered. "I haven't told you yet, but your help is very much … appreciated."

He sighed deeply into the deep darkness upon his eyes.

"You're a healer, and I must trust your power and knowledge," he said into the darkness. "It is difficult. Being weak and vulnerable is a shame. I can't pretend that it's not… Kindness confuses me."

She did not answer immediately, and Snape was half-hoping that she had left the room before hearing his words. When she spoke, her voice was warm, even passionate. Snape had never heard her talk like this before.

"I don't think you are weak at all. But … accepting help when you need it, when it is given with friendship and respect, can be a kindness, too. You are … so different from my other patients. I know about your troubles and I wish I could help you more … Unfortunately, I can't. Not really."

Snape could hear her move about the room, and he thought her steps sounded agitated. He regretted having revealed so much to her. What had come over him? It could be the trauma, the loss of his eyesight or the dittany that had disturbed him - obviously, he was not quite himself.

"All I can do is show you're not friendless," she said with determination. "Whatever you have been through, you don't have to carry the burden alone."

The edge of the blanket was raised a little, and Snape held his breath as he realized she had slipped under it. Instinctively, his hand reached out to investigate; but he pulled it back as suddenly as though it had been burned. What he had just discovered was more (or maybe less) than what he had been prepared for.

"Don't be shocked," she said softly. "I'm here as a friend … not as a healer. I voluntarily give up a part of my strength and power so I can have a small share in your ordeal. I am … _vulnerable_, like you, Severus; and I trust you just as I have asked you to trust me."

Not to be shocked indeed! He wished he could have some further proof that she was telling the truth, not only teasing him; but being unable to see, he would have needed another touch as proof, and he could not risk that. She would misunderstand… _Misunderstand_?

It occurred to him how beautiful she was. He had not noticed her beauty before, but now … it was radiating behind the bandage on his blinded eyes; he could feel her beauty without seeing or touching her as surely as he had felt the pain before. When was the last time he had experienced something truly beautiful? How was it possible to find her _here_ of all places and _now_ of all times?

A pang of pain came just in time to sober him.

"You must be kidding," he said.

"You _know_ that I'm not."

Once again, Snape was unable to respond, and the silence grew long and heavy. She was completely still - perhaps she was not there anymore. It would not be surprising... But the doubt tormented him. He could not see her. The distance between them was small, yet reaching over to her side was out of the question. He tried to listen, but he could only hear his own breathing, loud enough to unnerve him. Therefore he spoke finally, and his words were incautious, even reckless. But they prompted her to react, and her voice confirmed her presence.

"I'm not used to women like you popping into bed with me like … like _this_. And when it does happen one day, I'm in no state to exploit the opportunity whatsoever. I can't even see you."

He sounded sarcastic, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he meant every bitter word exactly as it was said.

"Which is probably what makes me so brave," she answered; and Snape could almost hear the blushing in her tone. "This is not about sex -"

_Unfortunately_, said a cheeky little voice in his head. This could only happen to him.

"- my dear friend, or I would have chosen a better occasion."

How far could pity go? She should not be doing that to him. Normally, a gesture like hers could only mean one thing - but Irene, who had just seen him injured and beaten, had chosen the occasion to make it absolutely clear this was different. Oh, she would not be with him otherwise. He had learned it long ago that a woman who was good enough for him would never consider him good enough for her. Those who were available to him simply were not worth having. But she need not have emphasized it. It was superfluous, and it hurt.

_A woman does not behave like this with a man_, the cheeky voice chimed in. _Or if she does, the man reacts differently_.

"So is this a way of showing … friendship?" he asked aloud, in an attempt to silence that cheeky voice. "It must be a new trend."

"Friendship … compassion … and trust" she replied lightly. "I hope you notice how I trust you to be a gentleman."

"How flattering," he said. "I can't help being a gentleman this time. I won't touch you."

The right thing would be to tell her to leave him alone. But, opportunistically enough, he did not want to be left alone. He wanted her company (her friendship, her compassion, whatever) rather desperately.

"You may touch my hand," she said, "if you want to."

"Where is it?" he murmured, giving up his attempt to be sarcastic.

The hand that had healed his wounds slipped into his, and his fingers locked around it firmly before he could realize what he was doing. With the tangible evidence of her presence securely in his grasp, no more words needed to be said.

"_If only_," he thought, dazed by the improbability of the situation, "_if only I could wake up and find you still here."_


	17. Something Begins

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 17**

_Something Begins_

She was not there when he woke up. The exhaustion of the day before had evaporated, and Snape felt completely alert immediately as he remembered where he was and how he had got there. He coughed cautiously. When no answer came, he boldly felt around with the hand in which he had held hers, but he was alone. Soon there was a knock on the door, however, and Irene entered, solicitously inquiring about his state of health quite as she had done back at the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. She leaned close to him to remove the bandage, and he recognized the fragrance he had smelt before falling asleep.

"Keep your eyes closed for a few seconds, and open them slowly," she said.

At first Snape could see only vague shapes in a too sharp light, so he closed his eyes again. When he opened them for the second time, he was able to distinguish some almost blinding whiteness against a darker background. As he gradually became used to the light, the whiteness turned out to be Irene herself. He gazed at her, feasting his eyes on the sight of her, searching for any discernible proof that she might betray of a night spent in an unusual way. He found no such proof, and he had to conclude that only the wounds and the healing of last night's story had been real, the 'rest' must have been an improbable dream (of the kind that he had believed to be a thing of the past). It was probably better that way.

Irene told him she would wait for him in the kitchen and hurried out. His clothes were on the edge of the bed, ready to wear. Apparently, she had managed to 'charm them back into shape'. That was a type of magic Snape was completely ignorant about (and it could not even be an entirely male problem either – his mother had similarly lacked all talent for making or mending robes). Therefore he could only hope the task had not caused Irene too much extra trouble.

Her qualities as a healer could not be questioned: The wounds of the day before had healed up; and after the first few cautious movements, he realized he felt no pain at all. Nothing prevented him from getting ready to leave.

She was busy making tea and humming a tune, and she did not notice him at once. Snape cleared his throat.

"Irene," he began.

She gave him a shy but welcoming smile, which filled him with piercing sadness.

"I'm leaving," he said. "I'm going back."

He knew this was the right moment to thank her once more, but words seemed empty and useless. Making a speech would be poor recompense for what she had done for him; and he would rather be in debt than pay her in Leprechaun gold.

She cast a long look at him; then she continued serving the tea.

"We are soon leaving, Severus, but first we are going to have breakfast," she said as though she was talking to the teapot.

She made a gesture of invitation towards the kitchen table already set for the meal with an appetizing assortment of food - toasts, sausages, ham and eggs and oranges.

"If you're thinking about work, you'd better forget it for today," she added. "As your healer, I insist that you take at least a week's rest. And if you think you're in a hurry, I can assure you Apparating back with me will be much faster than walking all the way. Please, don't argue, I'm not _so _bad at Apparation."

Snape stepped to the window and glanced at the village landscape. Irene had taken an empty house not far from Mrs Clearwater's home. He made no objection to any of her suggestions although the idea that he should not work for a whole week seemed exaggerated. Avoiding a place where he had experienced something very unpleasant was a luxury he had never been able to afford.

Shortly after breakfast, they got ready for the Disapparition.

"Take my arm," she said without looking at him.

Once again, Snape noted the fragrance that reminded him of the previous night. He could smell it throughout the Apparition.

They walked through the main gate together. No one stopped Snape, no one asked him where he had been, and he knew it was because Irene was with him. Still, some of the guards were taking curious glances at them, and Snape had the uncomfortable feeling that Irene's early morning arrival in the company of a convict subjected her to undeserved suspicion. Obviously, no one who had seen them both would seriously suppose something inappropriate could really be going on between them, but it was perfectly possible to spread malevolent gossip without believing it.

They stopped as their ways parted. Irene gave Snape a piece of folded parchment.

"This is a note for Mr Weasley," she said, "so he'll know what happened."

"Is it necessary?"

"I'm afraid so. What is more …" she lowered her voice a little, "I'll have to report the incident to the authorities. It is my duty. Violence must not be tolerated. They will have to find the culprits."

Snape shrugged vaguely.

"Death Eaters killing off each other … why would they mind it?"

"Severus, we are talking about a _crime_. My point is, _if_ there is an investigation, you must be prepared to tell them how the attack took place and what the attackers did to you."

Snape's mouth went dry.

"I see," he said noncommittally.

"Don't forget to take dittany for a few days," she continued after a momentary pause. "If there are any problems, come to the hospital immediately."

"You have cured me," he replied. "There won't be any problems."

"I hope," she sighed, "but I didn't mean the wounds or the pain only … There could be other things you may need to handle …perhaps even things you don't think are related to what happened, and yet, they can be."

He understood what she meant... he understood it perfectly. His lips curled into a bitter, twisted smile.

"Irene, do you sincerely believe this is the first time I have experienced something I have to learn to live with … something I have to, as you say, _handle_?"

Irene shook her head.

"No, I don't believe that, Severus. I realize you have had a tough life. But are you certain you know how to cope with those things? Are you certain you are doing what is best for you?"

He looked past her and gave no reply. His silence was eloquent enough.

* * *

><p>Her felt more than the usual unhappiness as he was walking towards Weasley's office. Irene's house had an air of freedom, after which the place where everything was about imprisonment appeared even more miserable and hideous. Weasley read the note at once; then he looked at Snape thoughtfully for a while.<p>

"I'm glad to see you're better now," he said at last. "Did you recognize the attackers?"

"They were wearing masks."

"We'll do our best to find them. You need to tell the authorities the details, however. If you want to tell _me_ first-"

Snape's gaze darkened.

"I'm sure you've got the main points in that note," he said.

"Of … course," Weasley backtracked, "I suppose I've got the main points. Well … you'd better be careful in future. Don't go for walks alone."

_Great advice_, he thought. Who on earth would he walk with? And he needed nothing else but an investigation … strangers asking him to tell _details_. He was a convict because he had wanted to avoid precisely that sort of thing. But he would have to take better care of himself in future; that was true. He turned to leave.

"It's lucky Healer Burbage was here just when Tanner brought the news," Weasley said to Snape's back as Snape was already going towards the door.

That was again true. It was lucky she had just happened to be there… But the observation had a strange echo in his mind _…you're lucky Evans was here, Snivellus_…He stopped with his hand on the door handle. He heard Weasley's question from a distance.

"Is everything all right, _Professor_?"

Irene. Tanner. Weasley.

He turned back.

"She's not … often here, is she?"

The question burst forth too soon for him to think it over. It was not his business how often Irene visited Weasley in his office or what she did in her free time. Weasley seemed rather surprised.

"No, not really…" he said, fiddling with something on his spotless desk. "We were discussing some … illnesses in my group."

Snape nodded and left. Most probably, they had been discussing Hunter's accident. Well, he could give them a couple of ideas that would shed some light on certain things. Yet, Weasley had been conspicuously reluctant to answer, as though Snape had indeed touched upon a topic that was not his business at all.

* * *

><p>Irene was writing her report. She wanted to be ready with it before her first patient arrived; therefore she was in a hurry. Yet, she could not help it: From time to time her thoughts wandered from the report to its subject.<p>

Severus had gathered some more bad memories, and despite her warning, he was probably ready to deal with them alone. He had not even complained the day before; in fact, he had told her very little, though, of course, the wounds had revealed what she most needed to know. She wondered if it was worth exposing him to the pain of an investigation.

Nevertheless, such brutal, abominable, outrageous cruelty could not be left unmentioned. She had managed to keep her cool the evening before because she was a healer and Severus had needed a helping hand and a cool head; but at times she had been almost thankful for the bandage over his eyes – she had only had to discipline her voice in order to _appear_ calm. If only she knew who the culprits were… The memory of how she had found him was still with her, and she did not envy the poor patients crossing her way today.

Then again, the self-control with which he had been able to bear it all had made a great impression on her. In fact, he had seemed almost _too_ calm, _too _collected, _too_ self-possessed and reasonable for what he had been through. Showing a bit more of the inevitable negative emotions would probably have been healthier.

Irene was also touched by the obvious trust with which he had let her lead him and had accepted her instructions and her treatment. He had not had much of a choice, but still … Back at Hogwarts, he had merely endured the therapy. Now, despite the physical and emotional pain, he had become noticeably relaxed in her hands as though he had been able to forget the horrible trauma for a while.

The Dittany therapy was just perfect for him. She had been astonished to discover how this stern, taciturn wizard with that forbidding veneer needed some tender loving care. How hungry he must be for physical contact … even though he would probably never acknowledge it. She remembered reading all sorts of nonsense about Professor Snape and Harry Potter's mother in the Prophet (only Severus could tell how much of it was true and how much was pure invention), and she wondered when he had last been touched by anyone … not in the course of a healer's therapy but touched with real love - just because someone liked to touch him. Not in the recent past, that was sure.

He should not be so lonely; he deserved to have someone… Irene shook herself mentally. It was easy to find _theoretical _solutions to other people's problems. His personal life was no concern of hers. She was ready to help him survive, to do what a healer and a friend could do for his physical, mental and emotional well-being in the given circumstances; but that was it. Severus would not tolerate any meddling in his private life by anyone; and who was she to give advice?

Besides, dating opportunities for convicts were scarce, to say the least. Unless Severus was visited by some female acquaintance who liked him enough to stand by him through these trials, there was little chance that his loneliness would end any time soon. Most of the convicts were men, and the few, rather horrible, women among them were not worthy of him. As for all other women, who would start a relationship with a convict? The village inhabitants tended to be old, anyway, and most of the female employees in the camp were too old for him as well … except a couple of secretaries in the main office building, but they only ever watched the convicts through the windows. (If a convict was still taken to the office building, it meant he was in trouble.)

No, no, no, _they_ had no idea who Severus really was. No one in the camp had an idea except Mr Weasley and … herself. What ridiculous thoughts… Irene leaned over the report again.

She had healed the physical wounds, but that was the easy part. There were deeper wounds, too, invisible ones… Severus was probably hiding quite a few of those. Yet, he had opened up to her a little the previous night. He had said things he would never have said if he had not needed to trust her so much; if she had not gained his trust. This unprecedented openness deserved some reward – something beyond the duties of a healer.

Whether she had chosen the wisest way was doubtful though. Contrary to what she had told him, she had wanted to shock him. Severus did not _have to be_ alone in his present troubles, but he apparently could not think of himself otherwise. She had felt he needed a shock – a positive sort of shock, to at least shake the wall he had built around himself. Oh, well, he _had_ been shocked, and his reaction could have been much worse. In spite of that, Irene had had to gather all her courage to composedly enter that room in the morning and to professionally take the bandage off his eyes; and she was still unsure whether the benefits of her impulsive action outweighed the possible damage that his opinion of her might have suffered.

* * *

><p>Even though Snape did not long for the hard labour in the bog, being idle was not a good thing either. Neither the memory of the attack, nor the memory of the subsequent night in Irene's house was easily banished from his thoughts. He seemed less and less able to close down his mind, and this apparent decline in his Occlumency skills disturbed him more than the idea that he was walking among secret enemies. Not only was he increasingly defenceless against <em>all<em> bad memories coming back to haunt him now, but he was also tormented by the suspicion that his whole magical power must be on the wane.

He tried to divert his thoughts by doing household chores and reading. However, the former did not prevent him from thinking, and as for the latter, he had only one book to read: It was a potions handbook, which belonged to the hospital. As he had been helping Irene dry the herbs earlier, Irene had noticed how his eyes were wandering towards the books kept on shelves in the potions kitchen. She said he could borrow a handbook containing a collection of recipes of potions used by healers because the hospital had multiple copies of it. Snape accepted the tome, although there was nothing in it he did not know already. Now, two days after the attack, he was studying the book, making notes of his observations and ideas on a piece of parchment as he was reading.

The parchment was soon full – he was writing nearly as much as reading. He could not even remember when he had last had the time to put down and organize the potion-brewing ideas developing in his head. Nowadays, the ideas were centred on one problem, a problem he had wanted to solve for more than a year, but his attention had had to be divided earlier. Now it was the perfect opportunity to do nothing but think; and he found it bitterly ironic that the opportunity would necessarily be wasted because he could not try out his ideas in practice.

Eventually, he got tired of that, too; and he spent some time watching the already dark camp through the window of the hut. It was snowing – the first snow of the approaching winter was falling softly, quietly and, for the moment, melting almost immediately on the ground. The convicts had returned from the bog (as days got shorter, working hours were shortened, too) and the scant lights of the huts were seeping through the small windows everywhere. Suddenly he noticed a wandlight in the semi-darkness (the camp was only moderately illuminated), not far from his window. He knew it was Weasley, leaving his office at the usual time. But, unlike other times, this evening he was not alone. Snape saw the shining white figure of a woman walking by his side, and his eyes followed the wandlight towards the exit of the camp.

He left the window realizing how pathetic he was. They were both young (Weasley, in fact, younger than Irene), and young people needed each other's company. What concern of his could it be what either of them was doing at the end of the day? Yet, in his mind's eye, he could still see that shining whiteness by the side of the Gryffindor. He hit the wall with his fist in a wave of frustration. So what? Had he not seen enough couples (both happy and unhappy ones) in his solitary life? He had never been seriously bothered by any of them – except one. Why was it _now_ that seeing _these_ _two_ made him feel acutely and quite unreasonably … lonely?

The next morning (it was a grey, rainy morning) he went out as soon as he had heard the others leave. He went to the camp shop to buy a few basic items, snarled at the shopkeeper simply because he was in a bad mood, and found himself making an unplanned detour in the vicinity of the hospital before directing his steps back towards the hut. Passing Tanner on his way did not lift his spirits. Weasley had been right, of course. Tanner was his enemy; and he strongly suspected that the Stunning Spell that had left him to the mercy of a group of vengeful Death Eaters just when he had seemed to be able to defend himself had come from the guard. The only question was whether they had planned everything together or Tanner had simply noticed what was going on and decided to give the attackers a helping hand.

Prison guards were trained to be able to successfully Disillusion themselves, and Snape had no doubt they were frequently using this ability in the camp, too. Tanner might have been standing nearby and watching the whole scene all the time, waiting for the right moment to give him a kick… Even though he had reported the incident to Weasley afterwards, ultimately enabling Irene to come to the rescue, that was clearly not kindness on the guard's part.

It was also likely that Tanner had had a hand in the poisoning. He had been on hospital duty; therefore he had had a perfect chance to overhear them. Later, he must have been off duty, and he might easily have been lurking outside the hospital, hiding under the Disillusionment Charm. He had had the opportunity to climb the tree and open the window … and he was heavy enough to break the tree branch on a hasty departure from the kitchen. Of course, Snape could not prove this suspicion; and he knew better than to accuse a member of the personnel with attempted murder unless he had hard evidence against him.

He hurried up as he was nearing his hut. He could have got back much earlier. There was no point in wandering about without a purpose in this place and in this weather.

He noticed her only when he nearly crashed into her. It was as though she had just stepped out of Weasley's office (which she had probably done). Snape stared at her. Was she not supposed to be in the hospital at this time of the morning?

Irene's face was beaming.

"I'm so glad to see you," she said. "There's something I want to tell you!"

"What is it?" he asked clumsily, taking a long, observant look at her.

"Come back to the hospital with me, and I'll tell you. I don't want to discuss it right here."

Snape glanced around; then he thought of Disillusioned guards lurking all over the place, and he nodded. Neither of them spoke on the way. A couple of sneezing convicts were waiting for her, but Irene politely asked them to be patient for a few more minutes.

"Is everything all right?" she inquired as she closed the door behind them.

"Everything is rather … ordinary," he replied with a pinch of sarcasm in his voice.

"Scars?"

"None."

"Wonderful. I'll only examine your eyes then."

She was satisfied with the result.

"How are you feeling about taking up work next week?" she asked.

The question irritated him. One had to live on something, and he had no other options.

"Does it matter how I feel about _anything_?"

Instead of answering, Irene changed the topic.

"I've just been to see old Malfoy," she said, "he ate ... or _drank_ something bad and got really ill."

Snape did not have to ask what Lucius had drunk; this sort of information had very little novelty value. His mouth twitched nevertheless.

"Did I say something … funny?" she queried, her eyebrows raised.

"_Old_ Malfoy," Snape mused.

Lucius was only five years older than him. He supposed it put him into the 'old' category, too. He did not consider himself young, but he had not yet thought he could soon be referred to as 'Old Snape' by someone of Irene's age. Irene chuckled.

"Why, he looks _much_ older than you, Severus."

"He's aged a lot in these past two years," Snape muttered somewhat defensively.

_Just as I have_, he added in thought.

"Anyway," said Irene, "I talked to Mr Weasley, too. He told me the news, but I don't think he will mind if _I_ tell you first. Can you guess what it is?"

"No, but you seem to be eager to tell," Snape answered a bit impatiently.

_Could she just skip the unimportant details and tell him right away_?

Irene had a strange twinkle in her eyes. Snape threw an involuntary side-glance at her hands and her slim fingers.

"You've got a new job!" she announced. "From now on, you will help us here, at the hospital!"

He stared at her for a long moment, his face unfathomable.

"What will I do?" he asked finally.

"You will brew potions, of course! Mr Weasley and I have convinced the High Warlock _and_ Titania that we'd do much better if we used potions freshly made here. Diagon Alley is far away, and there was that mistake with the wolfsbane; and some of the other potions we had ordered had become completely useless by the time they got here. It will be safer to order just the ingredients and use fresh potions brewed on the spot. Obviously, we are healers, not potioneers, so we need someone - we need _you_ to make the potions for the camp!"

Snape was speechless for a minute. Irene's face became suddenly worried.

"You like the idea, don't you, Severus? I didn't tell you in advance because you could have been disappointed, but I was sure you'd prefer this job to the other one."

"I do," he said quickly, "but," he added," did no one think … you could hire a regular employee, a free wizard –"

"Luckily, that would cost a lot more money," Irene replied frankly. "A free wizard would have to be paid much more … But you're an excellent potion-maker, and you're already here!"

"What a fortunate coincidence," Snape put in.

"I've been thinking about this for a while, and Mr Weasley has fully supported the idea since the beginning. Of course –"

"Of course?"

"Some people did have concerns about giving a convict such an important job … Titania at first refused the idea. I guess she remembers your vehement objections to the Control Solution… The poisonous Wolfsbane Potion did a lot of harm in this respect, too, but now that you have been so brutally attacked, it is easier to see the poisoning as a plot against you as well."

"Do they have any idea of the identity of the poisoner?"

"I don't think so," she answered. "But you see… what happened to Hunter's potion is not unique. Putting a harmful substance into someone else's potion is completely in line with other secret plots and pranks that are taking place regularly here. Hostility among former Death Eaters is not infrequent at all. It's a miracle no one has died yet. What they did to you last Sunday stands out because of the cruelty of the action, but from time to time, there are … incidents."

"You mean they are not afraid that I will murder you all?"

"Well, at least not because of the Wolfsbane Potion … not any more. The nature of the whole affair, your conduct afterwards and the subsequent attack on you make it unlikely that you deliberately wanted to kill Hunter. So yesterday evening, Mr Weasley and I together visited Titania, and we softened her up… And this morning the Warlock signed his consent, too!"

Her eyes shone triumphantly.

"I told them I'd personally answer for your trustworthiness."

"Ah … you're taking a risk again," he said wryly, suppressing the emotion surging up inside.

"I know," she replied with a conspiratorial glance, and Snape's lips curled into an almost real smile.


	18. The Healer and the Potioneer

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 18**

_The Healer and the Potioneer_

The next Monday Snape started his new job at the camp hospital. If he thought Irene had exaggerated the seriousness of the situation for his sake, he had to realize he had been wrong. The majority of the potions coming from Diagon Alley had been damaged on the way, and, given the unusually long delivery period, it had become clear that it was not worth ordering potions that had to be used up within a limited time after being brewed. The newly arrived potion ingredients still had to be examined and sorted into the different cabinets; and since new potions had to be brewed with them immediately, it was imperative to place another order without delay. It was also his job to replace what was at the moment missing with something available.

Therefore Snape was busy. The "potions kitchen" was entirely his territory now, and he began transforming it into a real potions laboratory, as far as circumstances made it possible. He was left to work in peace, although Irene came over for a few minutes during her lunch break, but that did not count as disturbance at all. At least once a day, Healer Sharp inspected the potions with a poison detector. She gave no explanation, and her manner towards Snape had not changed a bit.

On the Friday of the first week, he had to appear in front of the camp authorities in connection with the poisoning on the one hand and the attack on the other hand. He did not mind the former – it was an opportunity to defend himself against any suspicions or accusations. In matters of potion-making, his self-confidence was the same as ever. The latter, however, promised to be a difficult task, and he put on his best inscrutable expression before entering the main office building in the camp. Fortunately, the majority of the questions concerned the description of the attackers and data like the exact time and place of the attack rather than what he had had to suffer. (Irene's testimony had apparently provided enough details in that respect.) Still, he could not avoid describing the sequence of events at least briefly. Then he was asked to do a memory analysis.

It turned out that the High Warlock of the convict colony kept a pensieve in his office. It was much smaller than Dumbledore's and of lower quality, but it was suitable for the purposes of a simple investigation. Since Snape did not change his earlier standpoint that he was not sharing his memories with anyone, he himself had to enter the device.

The pensieve was set on a table in a separate room, where Snape was left alone after the memory was placed in the basin. He plunged his head into the neither-liquid-nor-gas substance and immediately he was in the midst of a noisy scene. He saw himself fighting against the hooded Death Eaters, but the job at hand was to concentrate on his enemies rather than on his own experience. For the most part, however, it was difficult to observe any single person due to the sheer speed of events. Later the attackers slowed down, cowering in front of the magic Snape was using, but the image was not as sharp as it would have been in Dumbledore's pensieve. Then he glimpsed the unmistakable light of a Stunning Spell, and everything went pitch black and silent around him.

In the next memory bit, he was walking around (with a slightly churning stomach) in deep darkness. Since he had been blindfolded, the memory contained no images, only voices – his own cries and the Death Eaters' taunts and laughter – and feelings: the cold, the wetness, the pain and the fear. He emerged from the pensive shaking, grateful for being alone in the room. But he had recognized, without doubt, at least one laughing voice among the other voices. It was a more high-pitched voice than the others, and Snape had heard it day after day at one time. It belonged to Alecto Carrow.

Snape arrived at the hospital in a murderous mood, the relived memory snapping at his heels like a hound dog. He was nearly two hours late, so he threw himself into potion-making straightaway, convinced that he had to make up for the lost time by especially intense work. He stayed longer than usual as well, although no one told him to do so. As he was finally putting away the cauldrons and the finished potions, Irene walked into the kitchen.

It had been a difficult day for the healers, too - the workers had been flocking into the hospital after a mass grindylow attack out there in the wetland. Yet, instead of hurrying home, she began making tea. Snape helped her – Irene looked tired, and she hardly knew her way around in the transformed potions kitchen any more. Soon they were sitting at a table, drinking tea and eating biscuits. At first they talked about the requirements of a professional potions laboratory, but the conversation slowly drifted in other directions. For quite a while, Snape expected her to ask him about the interrogation of the morning, a topic he would not have welcomed at all, but she did not even allude to it. Gradually, Snape forgot it, too, and the tenseness that had accompanied him all day long eased at last.

It was good to sit with Irene and talk about unimportant things – but it was even better to just listen to her and watch her. Snape discovered she had a gift for capturing one's complete attention. He was simultaneously aware of what she was saying, of the sound of her voice, of her gestures, of her lively features, of the look on her face… He was in no hurry to leave, and Irene, too, appeared to be enjoying herself, her tiredness forgotten already.

Their duo was expanded to a trio when they were joined by Mrs Primrose, the hospital nurse. (Snape did not consider the addition an improvement, although he had had nothing against the nurse so far.) Mrs Primrose had known Irene from the time when they had both worked at St. Mungo's. Being replaced there by a younger employee, the retired nurse - a childless widow who had spent all her active life looking after the sick - had been happy to find a new job, no matter where. Practically, she lived in the hospital. She had a private room in the building, and in the evenings she was in charge of the inpatients. She had to be woken up in case of an emergency at night, and it was also her duty to alert one of the healers when she deemed it necessary.

At the moment, Mrs Primrose seemed entirely satisfied with her lot as she volunteered to make another pot of tea and got engaged in the conversation, apparently grateful for the company. Irene did not mind her, but, as the nurse talked more and more, she became quiet and pensive, and her eyes often met Snape's for no particular reason at all.

"Would you like to come with me to town, Healer Burbage?" the old witch suddenly asked.

She had just explained she was going to meet an old friend of hers in a café on Sunday.

"I can't," Irene said at once. "I'll be otherwise engaged. I'll be showing the beauties of the countryside here to a friend of mine."

"A visitor?" Mrs Primrose queried with sincere interest. "Good for you! The season is not the best for outdoor activities though."

"The weather forecast is fine," Irene replied.

She and Snape left the hospital building together.

"Have a nice Saturday," Irene said. "Your weekend has started."

"So you are expecting visitors on Sunday?" Snape asked despite himself.

"No," she answered with a chuckle. "I didn't say I'd have visitors. The friend I'll be taking a walk with is already here."

"Someone from the village, I suppose?"

She threw him a mysterious, slightly mocking glance.

"The villagers don't need me to teach them the natural beauty of the area where they live."

"You didn't mention teaching before," Snape said with calculated reserve, aware that it was time to finish the conversation.

"It is because I feel a bit nervous about teaching someone who is much more experienced in teaching than I am. But perhaps you could help me."

"Do you need my advice?"

"Your guidance," she replied seriously. "Your patience. Your encouragement."

"Your friend must be an intimidating sort," he remarked.

"Indeed, he is," she conceded. "I don't even know how to tell him about my plan for Sunday."

"Haven't you mentioned it to him yet?"

"Not quite," she answered shyly. 'I can only hope he will like it."

"If you are not certain that he likes walking, why don't you think of some other activity?"

"Oh, it's difficult to tell what he would like. I can't think of anything better."

Snape felt a mixture of envy and irritation as the hard-to-please, arrogant but lucky jerk that Irene was so anxious to gratify appeared in his imagination.

"I wouldn't worry too much if I were you," he said almost roughly. "Your friend can be happy if you invite him for a walk. If he is not, he doesn't deserve … the … invitation."

As he was speaking, he caught the look of surprise in Irene's eyes. Oh, well, he had only told her his sincere opinion … but he had probably overdone it a bit.

"How is that for encouragement?" he added, trying to sound like the wise, older friend that he was (or should have been) to Irene.

"Wonderful," she replied with an amused smile. "What time shall we meet then? Will ten o'clock suit you?"

The image of the hard-to-please, arrogant but lucky jerk in Snape's head began a wild transformation. But he preferred to err on the side of caution.

"Do you mean you want me to take part in the excursion?"

"Of course," she said earnestly. "Your participation is absolutely necessary." She laughed out suddenly. "You are the friend I'd like to invite for a walk in this lovely countryside, Severus! I would have thought you'd have guessed it by now."

"From the description?" Snape asked dryly.

"Didn't you like it?"

Snape swallowed hard.

"You seem to forget something," he said slowly. "In this lovely countryside, the comings and goings of _some_ people are sadly restricted."

"You need permission, I know," she answered. "But why wouldn't you get it?"

"I will not ask for it."

He knew he disappointed her … but he could not see himself begging for privileges, giving _them_ the opportunity to deny his request. Irene's face, however, brightened up.

"Suppose you didn't have to ask?"

"That would be different," he replied.

"Ten o'clock then," she said. "Sharp."

On Sunday, Irene brought a parchment signed by Weasley, and they soon left the camp. They both realized that walks could be dangerous, and Irene lent Snape her wand immediately the guards were out of sight, 'just in case'. If they had to face an attack, Snape would be the better fighter of the two of them, even with a borrowed wand. He cast the necessary spells to identify anyone trying to follow them secretly and to keep away those who would find them later on. But the day remained peaceful, and Snape found that Irene was right – there were quite attractive places nearby, and, in spite of the chill in the air, the weather was suitable for a long walk.

They could walk in complete silence without getting bored. Yet, they talked as well – Irene especially, but Snape, too, had more and more to say. Irene laughed when she thought he said something humorous, and she laughed again when she almost slipped on a frozen puddle, but he caught her. Her laughter remained with Snape long after they parted.

Irene could think of Charity now without feeling guilty about being able to laugh.

* * *

><p>With the hospital job, Snape's life had definitely changed for the better. Potion-making suited him perfectly (even though his income did not increase with the 'promotion'), and his general working conditions had become much more comfortable. There were no guards standing behind his back and no other convicts to put up with. He had a tolerably equipped laboratory entirely to himself, where, as long as the various potions were ready when they were needed, no one dictated to him. As an added bonus, he was comfortably warm (and often too warm) all day long while his fellow convicts were struggling with the cold as well as with the grindylows.<p>

He liked to be in the laboratory much more than in the hut; therefore he did not mind doing overtime, and he often stayed there until quite late, reading whatever books or magazines he came across in the hospital. The magazines were always old, but he was not keen on reading about the present anyway. (He never bought the Prophet these days – partly for reasons of economy perhaps, but the main reason was his reluctance to follow what was happening in the world he was banished from.) He often had company as well. The old nurse liked to come in to make tea, and sometimes she produced a pie or a tray of cookies, and she treated Snape as though he was an unexpected but welcome guest. Occasionally Irene stayed for tea, too. But often enough, she went back to the village with Healer Sharp (who never spent an extra minute in the hospital after her office hours), and on these afternoons, Snape missed her.

Their Sunday excursion, however, quickly became established as a tradition, only the route changed. Cold and sleet drove them from the fields and the forest to the village, where Irene invited Snape to her house for a cup of tea. The next week Snape directed their steps towards the venerable institution bearing the name _The Village Inn_, and he suggested going in. He did not want to be her guest every week, and he could not expect her to endure the harsh weather because of that. Still, the idea was a bad one – on Sundays, the pub was frequented by guards and other camp personnel, and Snape could tell Irene felt just as uncomfortable as he did. They did not stay there long.

For all the favourable changes in his position, Snape had no illusions. His status had not _really_ changed. The special Sunday excursions notwithstanding, the earlier restrictions still applied to him. As the potion-maker's job had been given to him, it could be taken away, too. The permission that made the Sunday walks possible could be withdrawn. Much as he valued Irene's friendship and cherished the hours that made the present more bearable, he was still entrapped in the past, and the future was beyond his reach – he had no expectations and he made no plans. If he had wishes or desires, he dismissed them as hopeless. He was not free … or even safe.

The former Death Eaters who had attacked him had been caught. With the exception of Alecto Carrow, he hardly knew who they were, but his name was well-known to them. As the Dark Lord's favourite and 'right-hand-man' and as the wizard who had killed Dumbledore, Snape had risen to fame in and outside the inner circle of the Dark Lord's followers; and the recent rumours that he had been a spy must have created quite a stir among fallen dark wizards. (That the Carrows hated him was no surprise.) The attackers confessed to the crime (although there was no satisfying explanation for the Stunning Spell), and Weasley told Snape they would be punished severely. Snape never asked what the punishment was. One thing was clear – they had not been sent to Azkaban, but stayed in the camp, and Snape was not particularly interested in the rest.

He was more concerned by the fact that Tanner was on hospital duty nowadays much more frequently than any of the other guards, and he did everything in his power to remind Snape of his inferior position. In response, Snape took measures to keep his potions protected and to prevent another poisoning incident. Tanner also kept turning up wherever Irene happened to be, paying compliments to her and asking her out, although Irene never encouraged him.

Irene made a point of avoiding Tanner. She always Apparated back to the village in the company of Healer Sharp or Mr Weasley whenever the guard was off-duty at that time, to stop him from offering to see her home. Her days off and Tanner's rarely overlapped, and when they did, Irene tended to disappear from sight or to be busy in the company of others.

Snape witnessed these efforts and he suspected that their Sunday walks formed a part of her anti-Tanner project, and he fully approved of it. He liked to imagine that Irene, too, benefitted from their friendship, and he willingly kept her company every time she wanted him to. That, of course, fuelled Tanner's antipathy against him, and the guard's behaviour was getting more and more unpleasant. But Snape did not complain to Irene (or anyone else) even though the situation became really bad after Weasley's departure.

Percy Weasley had been acting like a workaholic for months, accumulating a significant amount of unused days-off, which he was taking now in the form of an extended Christmas holiday. He left in early December and was not to come back for a full month. His duties were temporarily taken over by a colleague who had no intention to get involved in the affairs of the group any more than it was absolutely necessary; and nothing could bother him that did not visibly upset law and order among the convicts under his command.

Trouble, however, started easily. While Snape still spent his days brewing potions, most of the convicts had more free time than before, since the snow and the cold weather had finally put an end to outdoor conservation work. Seeing the problem, the authorities kept giving them jobs from snow shovelling to repair works in the offices; and they also opened a large glasshouse, where the various edible and medicinal plants had to be cultivated by the convicts. Even so, the substitute supervisor concluded that a firm hand was needed, and he relied heavily on the guards.

Tanner recognized the opportunity, and, on the pretext of 'discipline issues', he became openly hostile towards Snape. In Weasley's absence, the Sunday walks seemed to be in danger, too; and Irene had to obtain permission from the High Warlock himself, citing medical necessity. But as they were leaving the camp, the guards stopped them for a 'routine security clearance check". Snape was made to wait nearly half an hour, then interrogated and subjected to various magic detectors. In the meantime, Tanner was talking to Irene. Snape was livid.

They usually walked all the way, but this time Irene grabbed Snape's arm and Disapparated with him as soon as they were out of the camp. They landed in an open field on the edge of the village, fresh snow under their feet. Snape, who had not been prepared for the Side-along Apparition, was affronted by being forced to Apparate without as much as a warning. But when Irene put her wand into his hand (as she always did), the sensation of a stream of magic becoming alive in him as his fingers got into contact with the already familiar wand calmed him a little.

"You had to wait," he began as though he was about to apologise for a commonplace instance of being late. He felt the words he was _not_ saying were choking him.

"That's nothing," Irene said quickly. "Such a horrid man… it's impossible to avoid him."

"What did he tell you?"

Irene rolled her eyes.

"He was trying to be _nice_. As if he could! What about the others?"

"They said they were looking for magical devices and other illegal items."

"That's a dirty lie. It was all Tanner's doing."

They wandered in heavy snowfall roughly in the direction of the village. Irene shuddered and pulled her winter cloak more tightly around herself. She was cold.

"_You_ could avoid him," Snape stopped abruptly. "You could leave this horror of a place. I don't understand what keeps you here."

From the sharp glance she cast at him, Snape was vaguely aware of having offended her, but he felt firmly convinced that he was right. She would be better off anywhere else.

"I don't understand what keeps _you_ here!" Irene snapped. "You could at least _try_ to do something! You shouldn't be here, and there must be some solution… How can you simply put up with _this_? You weren't a Death Eater; you fought for us and helped people survive -"

"I killed a man. I believe I have already told you: It's a crime under any circumstances."

"But it would help if they understood why! Do you ever think of how you want to spend the coming years?"

"No."

Irene was lost for words, and Snape did not feel like saying more. They continued striding ahead in silence. She wiped her eyes when he did not look.

"It's too cold here," Snape began again. "You need a warmer place."

"Shall we go to my house?" she asked.

"That's not what I mean," he answered. "We can go wherever you want to. I mean you need a warmer climate, a more … civilized place, with decent people around you."

Irene stared at him.

"Have you given up all hope? Is there no way out of here?"

"There _is_ a way out," Snape said dourly. "But mine is different from yours. Mine was shown by the Dark Lord … only I missed the opportunity … against my better judgement."

Irene had to fight back the tears again.

"Is it my fault then?" she asked fiercely. "And Madam Pomfrey's? Or are you blaming the man who found you in that shack?"

"I'm not blaming any of _you_," he replied. "It doesn't matter now ... what was done was done."

The snow was so dense they could hardly see each other.

"What I'm trying to tell you," she said, "is that there could still be … a different life for you."

"Can I change into someone else?" Snape snapped.

The wind was getting sharper and sharper. It was obvious that they needed shelter. Snape glanced around, wondering which way to go. There were houses nearby and a broken, unused fountain.

"You feel guilty," Irene stated simply, peering at him through the snowflakes. "You are … punishing yourself."

Snape conjured a large umbrella and fixed it in the air over their heads.

"If you want to put it that way…" he said morosely.

"But … Dumbledore himself ordered you to do it … it was part of his plan! Severus, you had to do it, didn't you? What … what would have happened if you had refused to obey?"

"I would have died," Snape answered. "And Dumbledore would have died a different death."

"But you were needed … to … to protect Hogwarts! Professor McGonagall told me -"

"They never noticed I was protecting them."

"But you were! And they survived! Others could have been murdered … like Charity! As a Headmaster, you could have saved her, too, couldn't you?"

"I don't know, Irene," Snape replied. "No one can tell what _would_ have happened. There are no _what if_s … only facts."

"You are still sure that Dumbledore would have died anyway."

"That was certain. He sustained a fatal injury."

"It's easy to deduce what else could have happened -"

"Dumbledore had another reason to want me to kill him," Snape interrupted. "He had a powerful wand … and he was afraid the Dark Lord would discover it one day. He could not risk being defeated by the Dark Lord or some other Death Eater as he was becoming weak or dying because he knew the wand would transfer its allegiance to the wizard or witch defeating the previous owner. That wand in _their_ hands could have been very dangerous."

"It means you did the right thing."

"Irene, the plan didn't work out! I killed him … but not soon enough. A certain Death Eater had already disarmed Dumbledore though he had not killed him. With regard to the allegiance of the wand, it counted as defeat. From that moment on, the wand belonged to that Death Eater. It was sheer luck and pure chance he never realized it … that he did not even touch that wand!"

"But-"

"What I'm saying is that it didn't matter whether I killed Dumbledore or not. He had already lost the allegiance of the wand. What mattered was the fact that the Death Eater never used it … and that Potter defeated him later, although he had no idea how important it was. But nothing depended on what I did … and very little depended on Dumbledore's plan… Who can be certain that a similar coincidence would not have saved Hogwarts without me? How can anyone tell that by killing Dumbledore, I really made a difference?"

"But you believed you would… You couldn't rely on chances and coincidences! And … you helped Harry Potter, too."

"I gave him a magical sword, which was in the end obtained by his friend, not by him…. and I gave him Dumbledore's message, half of which was deception and lie."

"It must have been important all the same. My impression is that he greatly values what you did … that he thinks it mattered … it made a great difference."

"You know very little about Potter," Snape observed.

"That's true. But I know _you_, and I … I mean the more I know you, the more I … want you to be … free."

Her voice trailed off, and her face was pink with the cold and with something else, too. Snape stood watching her, feeling strangely nervous. A very long time seemed to pass like this, far too long probably, until his hand reached out towards her, though its ultimate purpose was still unclear. At the same instant, she tossed back her hair with an impatient shake of her head. She straightened her shoulders. Snape had the presence of mind to disguise the awkward hand movement that had lost its way towards her when the moment that could have justified it was gone: He swept a large amount of snow off her cloak.

"Don't mind me, Severus," she said. "What matters is what _you_ want."

What _he_ wanted? Did he dare to want? If he did, could he tell her?

"I'm only your healer, after all," she added, and her voice sounded significantly cooler.

It was as though she had thrown cold water on him. Snape blinked and almost took a step backwards physically. He saw himself now as she probably saw him, too - as a healer saw a patient. It was not a flattering picture. Or at least, it did not resemble the one he wanted her to have of him. _Wanted_? Again, what _did_ he want?

"I wish you weren't," he burst out with bitter sincerity.

She was right when she criticized him… What he stood to lose was much more than he had been able to imagine. But the realization was, for the moment, paralyzing rather than inspiring. He still did not see the way out. Irene was silent.

"I'll take you home," he suggested, raising the wand again.

She did not object. It was too cold for a walk anyway.


	19. The SevenPurpose AntiCurse Elixir

__Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling.__

****Too Deep for the Healing****

****Chapter 19****

__The Seven-Purpose Anti-Curse Elixir__

It was completely dark when Snape got back to the camp. Irene had invited him into her house, and he had accepted the invitation so as not to offend her, but he knew that the day was irrevocably spoiled. During their previous walks, avoiding 'sensitive' topics (such as Snape's past, present and future) had been an unspoken rule between them. Now that the rule had been broken, the enchantment of their shared refuge was lost, too. He even suspected that Irene would have let him go away as soon as she had got home if it had not been for the snow storm.

He walked back to the camp alone. The weather had cleared up, and his thick winter cloak protected him against the cold and the wind. It was the same cloak in a pocket of which he had buried the small bottle containing a sample of the soil from the Forbidden Forest. He felt a degree of irritation every time he reached into that pocket and his fingers touched the bottle; but he had not yet been able to make up his mind to throw it away.

It was a long way to walk, but he made it even longer by stopping every now and then, looking for a tree branch that could serve as a substitute wand. The search was much more difficult these days than before. It was only by chance that he knew the explanation – he remembered reading once (years before) an interview with Mr Ollivander in the Prophet, in which the wand-maker had mentioned that winter was the least suitable time for making wands because it was difficult to awaken the 'sleeping' natural magic of the trees.

At last, he found what he needed. He was glad enough to have been able to conduct the search outside the camp, and he was in no hurry to 'awaken' the magic of the branch yet, lest the inevitable security check at the entrance detected it. But when he reached his hut, he realized it was too late to take safety measures that day.

He found his door magically locked, and shortly a guard arrived with Mr Robson, the indolent, smart-alecky substitute supervisor. Snape was told that the guards - allegedly after being 'tipped off'- had searched his hut and discovered several bottles of firewhisky there. Snape possessed no alcohol, but there was no way to prove that something had __not__ been in his kitchen. In normal circumstances, it would have been the accusers' task to prove the charge; in this case, however, it was enough that Robson tended to believe the guards (one of whom was Tanner) rather than a convict. Snape was pronounced guilty on the spot and compelled to pay a fine, which would be deducted from his wages, and the case was closed.

Grinding his teeth, Snape began to tidy up the hut, which had been left in a lamentable state after the search. Tanner, however, apparently had too good a time to stop yet. He returned later that night in the company of two other guards, and, keeping Snape at wandpoint all the time, they rummaged the hut anew.

It had been a bad day, and Snape could expect more days of this sort. As soon as he was alone again, he took the branch, and, suppressing his anger, began practicing with the new 'wand'. He ignored physical and emotional fatigue, and, after an hour of mental exertion, his hut was protected against intruders – at least as long as the protective magic lasted. By the time he finished, the branch had been consumed by the spells.

On Monday, it was with a little apprehension that he met Irene in the hospital, but, much to his relief, Irene was friendly, calm and professional, as always, as though the events of the previous day had had no lasting effect on her. Nonetheless, Snape was in a bad mood all day long, though he complained to no one. He was watching out for Tanner's next move. As he expected, the guard turned up again at night, but this time the cleverly placed undetectable protective charms made him change his mind(without letting him sense the magic), and Snape could feel somewhat safer in the hut, for a while.

Having secured a way to effectively protect himself, he was able to focus his full attention on potion-brewing on Tuesday; and with all the sneezing and coughing patients in the hospital, he had little time to think about Tanner. As always, the quality of his potions was beyond reproach, and both healers acknowledged it in their own particular ways – Irene with a heartfelt 'thank you' when Snape delivered a new supply of potions to her office, and Healer Sharp with silence because she could not find fault with his work.

Snape was busy brewing Pepperup Potion and various cough potions in large quantities, stirring and watching several cauldrons simultaneously, and waiting for the right moment to add the next ingredient. He sprinkled the brewing Pepperup Potion with some red pepper and did not even look up when he heard the door of the laboratory open. Instead, he reached for a small cup of carefully measured pomegranate juice previously placed on the table and ready for use, just as the liquid in another cauldron became the expected shade of orange. At the same time, the door closed with a click.

"__Petrificus Totalus__!"

Snape missed the moment when he could have defended himself. The pomegranate juice was added to the cough potion precisely on time, but the spell hit him as he was trying to duck. He collapsed on the floor; conscious but unable to move. With another flick of the attacker's wand, the cauldron was toppled over; and the hot, half-made potion poured sizzling all over the place. Tanner was approaching Snape with a malignant sneer.

"What a comfortable job you have here," Tanner snarled, standing over his victim and brandishing his wand in front of Snape's eyes. "Trying to move up the ladder, are we? Being nice to witches in return for a little promotion … What does __she__ see in you? A filthy Death Eater, that's what you are! You will steer clear of her, do you understand?"

Tanner removed the Body-Bind Curse, but he kept his wand pointed at Snape.

"__Do you understand__?"

Snape's face burned with anger, but life was returning into his limbs only slowly.

"Give it up … you simply … aren't her type," he groaned in reply, making an effort to jump to his feet, though his legs were still too stiff.

The next spell sounded hardly more than a long hissing, like that of a snake, and as the jet of purple light hit Snape, he fell back again, feeling as though he had been locked in a block of ice.

"That will teach you … We'll see how she will like you now…"

Laughing, the guard stepped to the potion ingredients already measured and cut up, and with a large movement of his arm, he swept them off the table.

"We're almost done," he said. "There's one last spell, and I'm almost sorry about this one, but one can't have everything…"

He pointed his wand at Snape's head.

"_Obli-_"

"What's this noise here? We urgently need some more –"

Mrs Primrose had entered so quietly that neither of the wizards had heard her, and now she was gaping at the scene before her, as Tanner turned around, and she realized what was happening. The curse remained unfinished; yet, for a moment, Tanner seemed to ponder the possibility of performing __two __memory charms instead of one. The momentary hesitation cost him the chance to put the idea into practice, however. Snape got up from the floor instantly, and Tanner lowered his wand, staring with apparent shock at the door that led directly to the examination room. Finally he forced a strained smile at the nurse, murmuring the words 'discipline issues'.

Mrs Primrose glanced around.

"What a mess" she groused. "This is a hospital here, not a pub!"

Frothing at the mouth, Tanner rushed out. For a long minute, Snape was speechless with fury as he got a full view of the damage.

"We need some more cough potion," the nurse said.

Snape stared at her as though he had just noticed her presence, then he staggered to the recently bottled medications and handed over the required concoction.

"You may want to see a healer, too," Mrs Primrose muttered, scrutinizing him, but Snape shook his head.

The nurse shambled away. Snape sank into a chair, feeling hopelessly tired. Yet, he gathered up his strength finally, clenched his teeth and began cleaning up the spilt potion and the scattered ingredients. The contents of the other cauldrons were useless, too. He had missed the stages where he should have added the next ingredients. He would have to start the whole process from the beginning again.

"Severus, what happened?"

Snape heard Irene talking to him but he did not glance up from his work. In his mind's eye, he saw Irene standing by Tanner's side one day in the distant, or not so distant, future. __Girls could sometimes change their opinions so thoroughly that loathing might turn into love and vice versa__.

"Mrs Primrose has told me you may need a healer. She says you were … disciplined … by a guard. What does that mean?"

"What __can__ it mean?" Snape responded at last, sounding annoyed.

"It was Tanner…" she whispered. "I knew…What did he do?"

"He started by Petrifying me," Snape answered. "He wanted to finish by wiping my memory, but Mrs Primrose's arrival stopped him."

__No, Irene could never love that cowardly brute__... __Never,__ he struggled desperately to reassure himself.

"Oh, Severus… It can't go on like this."

Snape started cutting up potion ingredients with such vehemence as though he was fighting a battle. __What ridiculous train of thought…__ __Beyond his aggression and his hostility towards Severus Snape__, __Tanner could not be compared to Quidditch hero James Potter.__ __And anyway, Irene wasn't __-

"Why did he want to do a Memory Charm?" Irene asked in a suspicious tone.

"To make me forget that he had been here, I suppose. In case I complained and anyone took my claim seriously."

Irene was standing beside him now, quite close.

"So he Petrified you … and then he wanted to make you forget who had done it… Look at me, Severus…"

"I must watch these roots," he said.

"Is there anything you haven't told me?" she demanded.

"Lots of things," Snape replied. "But your patients must be waiting for you."

"You are my patient, too, when you are ill."

"I know."

Irene could not be turned down so easily.

"I'm a healer," she said. "Don't try to fool me."

"Go back to your patients," he repeated. "There's nothing you can help me with."

Irene watched him for a while.

"Do you think you can make another five cauldrons of potions today?" she asked in the end.

"I won't leave until they're ready," he answered.

That was all Irene had to know. She went back to her patients, but she left the door open between the laboratory and the examination room. It was easy to guess why – Snape, however, did not think Tanner would come back now, and he found that the various sounds coming from the other side disturbed him. Therefore he shut the door again, after a while.

When Irene returned, he was still busy, and she waited patiently until he finished brewing. Snape spoke only when the new potions were safely in their bottles.

"What is it that you want?"

Irene was not offended.

"I want you to follow me," she said. "Now."

"What if I'd rather not?"

"I have the right to give you orders," she replied with unexpected harshness, "… or to force you, using magic."

Snape's lips thinned, but he objected no more. She led him into the examination room and cast an already familiar diagnostic spell. Snape closed his eyes.

"The evil beast," he heard her whisper, "it's a permanent curse… Why didn't you tell me at once?"

"I saw no point in … sharing the information," Snape said, opening his eyes.

"Severus, I'm a healer!"

"I know enough about the Dark Arts to realize you can't help now."

"Does it hurt?"

"There's no pain or wound or any physical damage. I feel … tired, but it will pass. Technically, the curse is hardly more than a long-lasting jinx. But it's dark and obscure. I wonder where he learned it."

"What … what does it do?"

Snape stretched out an arm.

"Touch my fingertips," he said, "and keep your hand there."

They stood just barely touching each other's hand, waiting. About a minute later, Irene gasped. It seemed the wizard's fingers were made of ice, and they were emitting a chill that seemed to freeze her flesh.

"I can't touch another human being," Snape explained. "At least, not for long. No one can touch me either."

He drew back his hand.

"Why did he do that to you?" she asked, her lips trembling.

Snape did not respond. If Irene could not guess the answer, he would not tell her.

"It was … because of me ... because we are friends. Severus?"

"He thinks we are … lovers," Snape replied, pronouncing the last word with apparent difficulty.

"It's my fault then," Irene said with a quiver. "I should have been ... much more careful."

"Irene," said Snape. "I wish we didn't have this conversation, but you insisted on finding out the truth… I can live with this curse. Look at me… What does it change in my life?"

Irene looked at him, as he had asked; but she could not bear the expression in his eyes for long. She dropped her gaze.

"But don't think he can't be dangerous to __you__," Snape continued. "He practises dark magic. Maybe he is learning from one of the dark wizards here. Go away, Irene, and never come back. This is not a place for you."

"A curse is a curse," she pointed out, apparently not even hearing the last few sentences. "It's … unhealthy. We must try whatever is possible. Who says there's no cure?"

She went to the bookshelf and picked up a book.

"It'll wear off sooner or later," Snape muttered. "Tanner can't cast a curse that lasts a lifetime."

"This is the latest about curses …"

She was turning the pages. Snape sat down with his face buried in his hands. He was too tired to argue with her.

"It says there is a potion_… ___In especially lucky circumstances, the Seven-Purpose Anti-Curse Elixir may be available… The true elixir will almost certainly help... __Do you know what it is?"

"It's an elixir that cures seven different curses."

"I guessed that much myself," Irene said. "It must be taken within twelve hours after the cursing … Have you ever brewed it?"

"Never."

"Really? But you __could__ do it for sure."

"Don't be so certain."

She picked up a potions handbook – it was another copy of the one that Snape had borrowed earlier.

"Perhaps I can find it here… Yes…"

She began reading the recipe.

"… __obscure and rarely available when needed … standardized use is impossible …recommended only as a last resort __... But, Severus, it does not look difficult at all… the ingredients are quite commonplace and-"

She broke off in the middle of the sentence and stared at the book with eyes open wide.

Snape raised his head. All the lines in his face tensed.

"__Some__ of the ingredients are common. __Others__ are rather … rare."

He could not see her expression, only the silent shock on her motionless shoulders, bending over the book.

Maybe a minute passed like this, until Snape rose.

"I'm going now," he said. "Don't worry, Irene. I appreciate the … effort."

"You could stay in the hospital for the night," she suggested. "I'll be here for a while as well."

"I don't think it would make any difference."

"You'd be safer here. What if Tanner follows you to the hut?"

"He has done that before. But I'm not safer here… as you see."

"He may try that Memory Charm again."

But Snape's hand was already on the door handle.

"Irene," he said quite coldly, "__I don't care__."

He walked out of the building and across the dark camp, feeling unjustly and inexplicably angry with – Irene.

She remained staring at the potions handbook, her face taking on an expression of determination…

When Snape heard the violent thumping on his door, he was sure it was Tanner. It was late night, and he was still sitting, fully dressed, in a dark room with hardly any heating, trying to close down his mind, but his thoughts kept flying back to Irene and to the shock she had betrayed, and he failed every attempt. It seemed not even Occlumency had remained to him. The noise interrupted the practice, but he did not stir. If the protective charms had stopped working (he had no strength left to make a substitute wand that night), Tanner would enter anyway. Would Irene be able to reverse a Memory Charm?

But why would he be compelled to endure the harassment, the humiliating attacks, the gradual loss of all his dignity? There was a cure for it all and he was free to choose it… Lucius had Narcissa and Draco to live for; while Draco could still hope to get a second chance in life. He had already used his second chance – if well or badly, he could not decide. But he had nothing to stay alive for, nothing good to expect even if he was strong enough to survive.

The thumping continued, and he slowly reached for the recently sharpened knife he had brought - secretly and illegally - from the laboratory that day. He was pondering which way he should turn the blade. Not that a knife would be any good against a wand… and that settled the question.

"Open up!" shouted a voice on the other side of the door.

It was definitely not Tanner's. But before he could do anything, the door swung open, and Irene rushed into the room.

"What are you doing?"

The wandlight was cast on the knife, which fell out of his hand noisily. Irene closed the door with her wand, and murmured a few protective spells.

"I could ask nearly the same," said Snape. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

"I'll tell you in a minute," Irene answered, panting a little as though she had been running. "I just … didn't expect I would have to face a knife in your house."

"I thought it was Tanner. It is __his__ habit to visit me without invitation."

"Will you tell me how these … visits take place?"

"Perhaps," Snape muttered reluctantly, "one day. Not now."

"Well," Irene said with hardly disguised excitement, "I've brought you something."

From her robes, she pulled out a potion bottle.

"Drink this."

"What's that?" Snape inquired with only a passing glance at the bottle.

"I'd never have thought there could be a potion you wouldn't recognize at first sight," Irene answered. "This is the potion that will cure you of the curse if you drink it in time. Here, examine it to see if it's of an acceptable standard."

Snape could not help feeling at least a little curious as he took the bottle from her hands.

"The Seven-Purpose Anti-Curse Elixir," she said encouragingly, her cheeks turning slightly pink.

His heart missed a beat. The Seven-Purpose Elixir had never been available for his well-equipped laboratory.

"Where did you get it?"

Irene opened her mouth and closed it several times before she was able to reply.

"Why I … I made it for you. Tonight."

This time her cheeks turned a deep crimson. Snape could see it clearly even in the dim light of the wand. He said the first word that came into his mind.

"Impossible."

She turned away from him, deeply hurt.

"Impossible, is it?"

"I do not doubt your skill," Snape said wearily. "It's just you can't have followed the recipe to the word."

"So you're not intending to try it?" Irene asked with utter disappointment.

Snape opened the bottle. The deep-red liquid emitted an appetizing, almost seductive aroma. Suddenly he felt intensely thirsty.

After all, he could at least humour Irene. He owed her some trust anyway, and the potion seemed safe enough. It might not have any effect whatsoever, but he saw no harm in tasting it… The potion had a rich flavour. Immediately he felt vast, warm energy flowing rapidly in his veins and spreading all over his body. Even if the drink was only a placebo, it was worth taking it.

Irene watched him, holding her breath.

"Well?" she said gingerly.

"It's good," Snape admitted somewhat apologetically, hoping she would be satisfied now. There was no need to further explain his doubts to her.

For a very long moment, Irene was silent. Then she reached for his hand.

"Let's test it," she said softly.

Snape was reluctant and wished he could save her from disappointment, but he could not think of a legitimate reason to just plainly refuse the test. They stood hand in hand for several long minutes, but no icy pain came. Her hand was warm, warming his hand as well.

"Will that do for proof?" she breathed.

Snape hesitated, unsure how to respond. He slowly raised his free hand, and – carefully, tentatively – touched her forehead. His fingertips followed the lines of her eyebrows; then they gently slid down her temple and her face to the corner of her lips; and there they withdrew. In answer to her question, he gave a silent nod. He had no words to describe what that touch meant to him.

"I'm going then," she said, her cheeks glowing. "I'll cast a One-Way Protection Charm outside your door. It'll keep away unwanted visitors for a few days at least."

Snape did not ask her to stay longer. Her appearance in his hut had been amazing enough … almost unbelievable. It seemed perfectly natural that she would go now.

"You can rest assured, Severus" she added, stepping to the door, "that I followed the recipe to the word, exactly as it was written in the book."

With this, she was gone, taking away the light of her magic, and Snape rushed to find his borrowed copy of the potions handbook. He had to light a candle first, and he used up three matches before he succeeded. That he did not set the hut on fire was a small miracle in itself.

__It must be a new recipe__. That was the only explanation. But he had to see it. He was turning the pages so rapidly that he all but tore them out until he found the one he was looking for. There was the recipe, the list of ingredients starting with the commonly used ones, and then: __a drop of blood from the potion-maker__. Under the list of ingredients, there was a long line written in bright red letters, impossible to miss by any careful reader: __Attention: The potion can be successfully brewed only by a witch or wizard feeling sincere, deep love for the potion's intended recipient; and vice versa: the only person able to use the potion with the intended result is the one sincerely and deeply loved by the potion-maker whose blood is contained in the elixir.__


	20. The Alarm at Night

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 20**

_The Alarm at Night_

It was the same, centuries-old recipe; and yet Irene said she had followed it to the word. Snape dropped the book – his head was buzzing, and his heart was thumping in his chest as though it wanted to break free. He opened the door of the hut and gazed after her. Irene could have gone quite far away already, but she must have spent a long time placing protective magic around his hut: He could still see her white figure walking towards the exit. Suddenly, however, a large shadow appeared, and Tanner's rough laughter filled the air.

"She didn't feel like staying, did she? Good night, little boy!"

The guard stood at some distance. Snape knew Irene's One-Way Protection Charm would keep him at that distance and there was no need to fear his spells either. Snape's magical power, however, was intact and strong, and fuelled by rightful anger. A quick Legilimency exercise (just a short glimpse into the guard's mind - much more successful than the Occlumency practice a little while before); then a long, intent glare - and the laughter was wiped off the malignant face. In apparent confusion, Tanner began to walk away from both Snape and Irene, though his thick neck kept turning around.

Snape did not care how big the guard was or which of them had a wand. He knew that in the given circumstances, his will would overcome Tanner's for a few minutes only. He ran, ran, as fast as his legs could carry him, his winter cloak billowing after him, until he caught up with Irene.

"Severus," - her voice was the voice of surprise but that of pleasure as well - "what's happened to you?"

"Let me walk with you to the gate," he said, "until you can Disapparate."

"It's very kind of you," she replied gingerly. "But … your house is a safe place now, and -"

She should not have mentioned that.

"I know," Snape interrupted somewhat sharply. "But it's _you_ who must get to a safe place as quickly as possible. Tanner wants to follow you!"

"I can deal with him," she answered, still surprised. "I'd … rather you didn't attract his attention -"

"I already have. I can't and I won't hide from him all the time," he said firmly. "I have a feeling that he will now begin to harass _you_. I … _saw_ his intent."

The words made Irene shudder. She glanced round surreptitiously and put out the light of her wand. They had already left behind the area of the buildings, and they were walking in thick, velvety darkness.

"So you've seen him."

"Yes."

"What happened?"

Snape shrugged.

"I forced him to go … but he won't stay away for long."

"You _forced_ him?"

"I'm a wizard, after all," Snape replied with a degree of wounded pride. "And I'm certainly a better wizard than _he_ is, even without a wand."

He secretly wished he did not have to _tell_ her that. She had seen him in moments of defeat far too often… But he was not quite as defenceless as Irene apparently imagined him to be. It was hardly believable that she could still value him to the extent the Seven-Purpose Anti-Curse Elixir suggested. Yet, the potion was objective evidence that could not be manipulated ... or at least not easily. Even if the rest was a mystery, he could be sure of _that_.

These thoughts and the certainty that she was in danger – because, in his eyes, being harassed by Tanner could only mean danger for her – kept him silent, and he had no idea how confused Irene was. When he had run after her, for a happy moment she had thought she knew the reason why. Severus had to understand what she had just revealed to him, and his sudden appearance made her believe he was going to say something in response to that; but - no. He merely announced he would walk her to the exit.

She would have understood what it meant if he had just ignored her after the revelation. But he was risking his own safety to protect her (though she felt she did not need half as much protection as _he_ did); yet his silence on the subject she most wanted to hear about made her uneasy and embarrassed. It would be even more mortifying if she misunderstood his reasons; and she was reminded of a scene she had seen in his dream, a scene in which a young woman died before everything darkened… Was Severus _still_ dreaming about her?

As they approached the illuminated exit, she stopped.

"Stay here," she whispered. "Don't come as far as the gate. I'll be fine. As soon as I step out of the camp, I can Disapparate. There's no need to follow me any more. But you … stay safe."

"All right then. Go," he said, but Irene did not start at once, as though she was waiting for something that failed to happen. "I'll watch you until you Disapparate."

"Good night, Severus," she said.

"Good night," he replied, and he let her leave without saying a word in connection with the Seven-Purpose Anti-Curse Elixir. Without taking her hand. Without even looking into her eyes.

But Irene did not realize how watchful he was, and his vigilance was not without good reason. Just as she reached the camp gate, Snape glimpsed a shadow moving slowly, stealthily towards her. Irene did not seem to notice. Snape glided ahead without hesitation, noiselessly and quickly like a snake.

Outside the camp, Irene was already concentrating on the famous three D's when the gate opened again. Irene vanished, and Tanner stepped out of the camp, not even bothering to close the gate behind him. He raised his wand, and Snape knew the guard was going to Apparate after Irene. How much time did she need to get into her house and lock her door safely?

In less than the time that the question could have flickered through his brain, he acted. He slipped through the opening; then he jumped and grabbed Tanner's arm, just as the guard was about to Disapparate, and did not let go of him.

The alarm sounded as soon as Snape left the area of the camp, but by the time he realized what it was, the sound had faded away and he arrived at the village, in front of Irene's house, where Tanner had Apparated. Now it was the guard who seized _him_ - Tanner took care to touch only his clothes and to avoid any direct contact with his skin - and in another minute he was back at the gate of the camp, where the alarm was still blaring. Tanner was swearing furiously and he threw Snape violently against the fence, face ahead. Snape felt the guard's wand pressed against the back of his neck.

"Attacking a guard again?" Tanner yelled at him. "A breakout attempt? Do you know what you will get for this?"

"You were about to abandon your duty," Snape hissed back angrily. "To leave … the camp -"

He could not continue, because now it was not the wand, but the hand of the guard that was pressed against his neck for a few seconds.

"_I_ came here to catch you when I heard the alarm. Remember that. Anything else is a dirty lie!"

Several other guards arrived running.

"It's all right, I've caught him!" Tanner shouted, and the alarm stopped as Snape was led back to the camp at wandpoint.

He was thrown into some sort of shack with neither light nor heating.

"What are we going to do with him?" one of the guards asked in an undertone, as most of the others were already leaving. "We could have some fun."

"No," Tanner growled. "Don't touch him. Let's go."

He was left alone; still it took many long minutes before he stirred on the wooden floor, where he had been shoved. It was even more difficult to gather his thoughts. Irene, her potion, the improbable conclusion he had come to, Irene Disapparating, and _he_ jumping on Tanner, and finally the alarm ... and the phrase echoing in his head: _a breakout attempt_. It all came back only slowly, each piece of memory as unbelievable as the other. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a strong desire to be rescued, to be woken from a bad dream once more. It was only with great effort that he kept from banging at the door and shouting.

It was essential to remain in control of his mind and emotions. He could not expect help from any other corner now. Irene did not know about his trouble, and even if she did, she would not be able to save him when he was accused of trying to escape and attacking a guard. The alarm was definitely against him.

No, there was no reason to involve Irene in this filthy business. She was at least safe from Tanner - for the moment. But she deserved better than being associated with the petty fight between a guard and a convict. Perhaps she would see sense now and give up this thankless job. As for him, there were few things that could make his life worse. He wondered what torture he had escaped simply because Tanner thought the curse was still operating and neither friendly, nor hostile hands could touch him for long. He still might be transferred to a cell in Azkaban - but only if he survived the rest of the night in the freezing cold.

The latter was a serious question. Though he was wearing his winter cloak, he was already feeling very cold. It was also unlikely that he could keep himself warm with physical exercise for all the remaining hours of the night even if there was enough room in the small shack to move around. He put his gloveless hands into his pockets, and once again his fingers found the bottle with the soil of the Forbidden Forest in it.

Being reminded of Hogwarts gave him pain and increased his anger. He took the bottle from his pocket and mercilessly poured the small sample of soil into his hand, feeling rather than seeing the cold, wet and soft substance in his palm. He let the bulk of it trickle between his fingers onto the floor, so that only a small stone was left lying quietly in his palm. He felt it, turning it around with his fingers. It had several deep lines in it, as though they had been carved, and it was strangely cracked in the middle. He hesitated; then he put it back into his pocket. _Firmly rooted in Hogwarts soil_ … what a pathetic idea to cling to…

He was shaking with cold, knowing that soon the temperature of his body would be going dangerously down. He tried to take a few steps around, feeling the wall of the shack, but his legs did not obey him any more. His eyes got tired of peering into the darkness, so he closed them. Huddled up on the wooden floor, he inhaled the cold air and the smell of wood around him, his body shaking ever more violently now, to a maddening rhythm dictated by some uncontrollable force. He could not feel the floor of the shack any more, and the darkness disappeared from behind his closed eyelids.

Something fiery red was floating in front of him and seemed to be approaching.

"You are still seeking the company of the dead," the floating figure sighed as she reached him.

"You said I needed peace," he replied. "Death would have been peace. You didn't let me die."

"I want you to find the peace of the living," she said. "Forgive yourself, Severus. Embrace life. The key is in your hands."

"I must have lost that key. I don't know how to forgive… or how to receive forgiveness."

"And you're blaming me for it, aren't you?" she whispered, and Snape saw the brilliant green eyes turn misty. "You're wrong. You have my full forgiveness."

"It's too late," he said, watching the familiar features of the lovely, young face. "I can't take it. It is way too late. But I never blamed you."

She looked at him with something like regret perhaps, and sighed again. Snape could feel a warm breeze touch his soul.

"What do you need now, Severus?" she asked, gazing deep into his eyes. "What can I do for you?"

"Warmth," he answered. "I'm cold… very cold."

The fiery red hair was waving about invitingly, and Snape reached towards it. He did not expect he could really touch her – and indeed, the fiery redness felt like real fire: untouchable. Merely approaching it warmed him as though he was reaching for real flames. His palms were glowing with heat now, but gradually the fiery redness and Lily's whole figure melted into deep darkness broken by nothing but a pair of red-hot sparks.

Snape was back in the dark shack again, and the red-hot glow was radiating from his own raised palms. It was his own magic concentrated in that glow, warming and illuminating his environment. He survived the night.

In the morning, he had to appear in court. The short trial was presided over by the High Warlock of the camp, and Tanner was the key witness.

Snape could not deny the charges that he had left the area of the camp without permission and had attacked a guard. He did not take the opportunity to provide an explanation – Tanner would deny everything that he could bring up in defence of himself, and he did not expect his words would be credited against a guard's. He did not mention Irene either. The only reason to bring up her name would have been if he could have kept her safe from Tanner by that; but he knew how pointless it was to beg_ others_ to protect someone for him. Of course, Tanner was not the Dark Lord – but Mr Grey, the camp's Warlock was not Dumbledore either.

Thus the break-out attempt was regarded as sufficiently proved by the alarm and by Tanner's testimony (although technically Snape did not admit to it). Within half an hour of his appearance in court, the sentence was ready: In the short run, two weeks' imprisonment with no visitors allowed; in the long run, his original sentence would be extended by one-third. That would add five more years to the original fifteen. He was taken to a prison cell immediately.

* * *

><p>"<em>I<em> _INSIST_!"

Mr Grey, the High Warlock of the prison camp, was gaping dumbfounded at the usually kind, quiet healer, who was all but physically turning into a female tiger in front of his eyes.

"But Healer Burbage, we have just sentenced him today," he said when he was able to speak again. "We must wait at least a couple of days before breaking our own rules. What kind of message would that send to the rest of the convicts otherwise?"

"I DON'T CARE!" screamed the spirit of an ancient Greek Fury. "You don't understand what happened in reality! I know him! HE DID NOT WANT TO ESCAPE!"

The High Warlock was shaking his head.

"He set the alarm off and he couldn't explain himself afterwards," he said.

"If by any chance he _did_ want to break out," the healer began a little more quietly.

"Yes?"

"… then it was for a very good reason! It must be something you should be informed about!"

"He didn't tell me his reason."

"Mr Gray, I met him last night," Irene said quite calmly now.

"Very interesting," Mr Grey muttered, his eyebrows raised high. "But is that _relevant_ information?"

"I believe it is," Irene replied.

"The convict did not mention it."

"I'm not surprised."

Mr Grey raised his eyebrows even more, but Irene did not drop her gaze.

"I made a potion for him and took it to his house," she explained. "He had been attacked yesterday afternoon by Mr Tanner. That's why he needed the potion… to neutralize the curse. That guard had used dark magic on him!"

"I can see a motivation for _his_ attack evolving here," said the Mr Grey. "Why did Tanner … as you say … _attack_ him?"

"Mr Tanner had been regularly bullying him for a while."

Mr Grey was stroking his chin.

"Tanner is a very efficient guard … I suppose I must have a word with him about this accusation. But tell me everything you know. It seems strange that the convict never complained."

"He doesn't believe it would help him. Perhaps if you tried and asked him specifically... perhaps he'd tell you a few things privately. Or wait until Mr Weasley comes back. Mr Weasley may have a better chance to win his trust."

"Back to your story of last night then."

"It was quite late when the potion was ready and he received it. When I left for home, he offered to accompany me to the exit."

"Did you accept this offer?"

"I wish I hadn't. But I did. And here is the part that he keeps secret from you. Severus came with me because he suspected Tanner was going to approach me, taking advantage of the late hour and the darkness."

"What made him think that?"

"Mr Tanner has recently been more interested in me than I would ever want him to be."

"So the convict offered to … _protect_ you? Simply out of gallantry? In _his_ position?"

It was impossible not to hear the sarcasm in the Warlock's voice.

"Exactly," Irene replied defiantly. "Out of gallantry … and in _his_ position."

"That's remarkable. What happened next?"

"I don't know," Irene admitted. "I … Disapparated as soon as I left the camp. He didn't accompany me quite to the gate. I can't tell you why he was outside or how the fight began. Tanner may have provoked him… But it can't have been an attempt to break out, I'm absolutely certain of that!"

"There's very little I can do if your … _gallant friend_ doesn't share vital information with me. On a side note, I do not approve of friendship between convicts and personnel."

"I must talk to him to obtain that vital information," said Irene. "He isn't your average convict."

"I see what you mean. I've read the papers, too. But it is the decision of the Wizengamot that matters to me, and I expect that all employees in this camp will be guided by the same principle."

"One more thing. Severus has appeared to be rather desperate lately."

"Desperate enough to try to run away?"

"No," Irene answered gravely. "Desperate enough to kill himself."

"Those two things may be one and the same."

"Mr Grey," Irene pleaded, "I'm a healer and I know what I'm talking about."

The High Warlock pondered her words for a minute.

"All right," he said finally. "You can visit him… as a healer. But only one visit, and only for an hour."


	21. The Hour of Confessions

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 21**

_The Hour of Confessions_

Snape was watching Irene. Her figure nearly illuminated the cell, as she entered. In the first moment her unexpected appearance had prompted an involuntary movement on his part but he quickly disciplined himself and assumed an expression of cold inscrutability.

"I was told no visitors were allowed," he said.

"I had to fight for this permission, yes," she replied. "But I succeeded."

"There's nothing you can do," he said. "This is not an illness."

"But maybe there is … Severus … it wasn't a breakout attempt, was it?"

He shook his head.

"I knew! Why didn't you tell them what had happened?"

"I chose not to."

"Will you tell _me_?"

"Tanner tried to Apparate after you. I stopped him."

"How could you take such a risk … for me?"

"I didn't have time to calculate the pros and cons. You should be careful, Irene. He's brutal and he means to … get you."

"Do you think he would dare to resort to violence? Against me?"

Snape gave a curt, mirthless laugh.

"Have you practised the Shield Charm recently?"

"Well, not really. No."

"Start it today."

"I wish I could be taught by you."

To that, Snape did not reply.

"Severus," she continued. "You should tell the full truth to Mr Grey. I have already told him what I know. If you have wanted to keep secrets for my sake, you can forget it. At least they'll understand that it wasn't a breakout attempt."

"I still attacked a guard. And I still left camp territory -"

"Shall I send an owl to Mr Weasley and ask him to come back earlier?"

"What good would it be?" Snape protested. "Weasley can't change the High Warlock's decision. His parents lost a son in the war. I can't deprive them from another son during Christmas. I don't need his help."

"How shall _I_ help you then?"

"You've already done quite enough," Snape answered. "Your conscience can be clear."

"But it's not."

"Don't be so good to me, Irene. I'm not worth it. I told you: Go home and don't come back. Find a decent job."

"I won't abandon the duty I have chosen."

"There'll be patients elsewhere, too. You can fulfil your duty."

"My present job," Irene said, "is not just to be a healer, but to right a wrong, to serve justice as well as I can. You should never have been sent here, and I'm not the only one to know this. I won't … I can't let you perish here as the victim of an ungrateful sentence after what you did to save us all!"

Snape's expression froze, but Irene felt a sense of relief as though she had got rid of a heavy burden.

"So…" he said tensely, "how did you get this job after all?"

"The Minister of Magic supports you. Apparently … he was full of self-reproach when you had been found guilty. He had wanted justice, true justice, but he realized he had failed."

"How do you know this?"

"From Harry Potter. He suggested to the Minister that I be given a job here… By that time he had already appointed Mr Weasley supervisor. Professor McGonagall told me that I could help in a different way."

She sighed.

"Now you know it."

"How clever," Snape said.

He was aware that he should feel thankful for the ministerial protection, but the idea that Irene was at that very instant performing a job, a secret mission that concerned him as its subject only made him feel painfully disappointed. Yet, he wished he had recognized the truth earlier – it was such a simple, easy-to-understand explanation for everything ... _No_, a quiet voice objected in his head, _not for everything_.

"Harry and his friends are trying to collect new evidence in your favour. My job is to help you … survive … while you must be here. It's only justice, Severus, nothing more. You mustn't refuse it."

"Nothing more," Snape muttered. "I see. Was the Seven-Purpose Elixir part of this plan, too?"

He was staring at the dusty floor as he spoke, and he did not see the colour rise in her face.

"No," she whispered. "That was different. I … had to heal you … because I was able to."

Snape looked up and their eyes met. The blushing suited her. Once again Snape thought how beautiful she was.

"You'd better leave me, Irene," he said. "Like Tanner, I'm dangerous, too. Only in a different way."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be."

She looked away.

"Don't worry, Severus. You don't owe me anything. Like so many others, I've heard the story of Harry Potter's mother. Back at Hogwarts … you had a dream about her death … you saw her when you were ill and I … entered your dream. She was … Lily Potter, wasn't she?"

"In reality," he replied reluctantly, "I wasn't there when she died."

"But you see her in your dream!" Irene snapped. "The living can't compete with the dead, and she's been dead for a decade and a half now… Oh, yes, I understand that you still love _her_. Or at least … I'm trying to understand."

"No, you don't understand."

He said the words despite himself and regretted them at once. It would have been much easier to leave it at that, and yet, he had corrected her. Now he would have to go through with what was coming.

"Explain it then."

Snape hesitated.

"How could even a wretch like me not love the sunshine lighting up his dark den for a few hours … or minutes a day?" he said at last. "But what a pathetic fool would he be who imagined he could regard the sunshine as his own… What claim do I have to _you_?"

"That's quite … poetic," she answered in a softened voice. "But the sun shines on all, while I'm only a human being. It's unreasonable to think so highly of me."

"Don't want me to love you as a human being," Snape said almost roughly. "You don't know what a curse you'd take upon yourself. I don't deserve it. I don't want it. I couldn't bear it."

"You couldn't bear … to love?"

"You think you love me, Irene, but you still have no idea what I am. Let me …enlighten you. It'll make your choices easier."

Irene did not reply, only watched him closely. She could almost see the wall that was about to come tumbling down. For a few moments, he was silent, too, as though he was gathering his thoughts.

"You are aware of the reason why I'm here," he began.

Irene nodded.

"You're here because you killed Dumbledore … because you were accused of having been a Death Eater."

"Exactly. I killed Dumbledore and I had been a Death Eater once…Yes. As a child, I had Lily's friendship, but I couldn't keep it. It was a miracle that through pure chance and sheer luck I had been able to obtain it in the first place. We could hardly have been more different… And it must have been difficult to love me. My own mother … just barely managed. My father never loved me."

"It can't have been your fault," Irene said. "You were but a child."

"He was a Muggle and he hated magic. He never wanted me, and he made my mother's life miserable just out of spite. I grew up watching their arguments and fights … because of me, and later because of … everything. Due to depression and unhappiness, my mother was gradually losing her magical power. Towards the end, her life was hardly different from a Muggle woman's life. But while her magic was decreasing, mine was increasing, and my father knew it. My mother had to pay for that, too. I had no reason to love _him_. But I loved my mother even though she was far from being a perfect mother. And yet … the mere fact that I existed ruined her."

He shuddered.

"I could hardly wait to get away from home… to go to Hogwarts, to be among wizards and witches at last. Lily was radiating magic, and I admired her. She was Muggle-born, and she learned it from _me_ that she was a witch… that there were other people like her. I was proud to be able to introduce her to the wonders of our world ... and I did my best to conceal the truth – the truth that I needed her much more than she needed me. Of course, it was only a matter of time for her to realize it. At Hogwarts … she was loved and popular. I was … just the opposite. She had less and less reason to love me, while I was blindly seeking a way to impress her … getting further and further away from anything she could have appreciated. One day … she put an end to it all."

His gaze suddenly turned hollow, and he could not keep the dark emotions out of his voice.

"After leaving Hogwarts, she married James Potter. I became a Death Eater. By that time, I had been playing with the Dark Arts for years. I longed to grow stronger … more powerful … I wanted to be feared rather than despised and bullied. I thought I had found the place where I would be able to further develop my talents... the place where I belonged. I was wrong."

He stared at Irene hard.

"Do you know why Lily had to die?"

"The Prophet has written all about Harry Potter's life," Irene answered tentatively. "His mother was killed by You-Know-Who. She was protecting her son."

"You're right," Snape said. "But not even the Prophet knows everything. In this one respect, Potter and his friends have kept my secret … like Dumbledore before. Lily Potter had to die because of something I had told the Dark Lord."

Now it was Irene's turn to shudder, and her cheeks became pale. Snape made a painful grimace.

"I wasn't as evil as you perhaps think. I didn't tell the Dark Lord to kill them. I simply … passed on to him some information that I shouldn't have heard in the first place… It was a prophecy about the coming of someone who'd have the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. It was rather cryptic, and I had no idea who it referred to. But the Dark Lord interpreted it as referring to Lily Potter's son. _The_ _Chosen One_! The Dark Lord's first priority became to kill him … to kill them _all_."

Snape's breathing was shallow, and Irene wondered if she should advise him to stop; but Snape forced himself to go on.

"I was terrified when I realized what I had done. I asked him… asked him to spare her."

"Her?" she whispered.

"Are you disgusted? Dumbledore was, too, when I rushed to _him_. The Dark Lord's promise couldn't be trusted, not when Lily's life was at stake! I had no more faith in him. So I told Dumbledore everything, begging for his help. He reminded me that Lily's whole family needed protection… I was out of my mind with fear for her, with fear of Dumbledore… I knew very little about Dumbledore in those days, and I was afraid he'd kill me before I could tell him why I had to see him. Meeting him meant to give myself fully into his power. I never expected to leave as a free man after that meeting."

"And you still sought him out…" she breathed.

"To this day I don't understand why he didn't hand me over to the aurors," Snape said. "He made me feel ashamed… and he turned me into _his_ man. His _spy_. But as you know … we failed. A friend of Potter's, whom he trusted on another friend's advice, betrayed them. It's incredible how many friends it took to get them killed!"

Snape's fist hit the wall of the prison cell.

"I wanted to die… but Dumbledore kept me alive. He gave me a new purpose - to protect Lily's son for Lily, who had died protecting him. I agreed to do it. He gave me a whole new life ... a new start. He saved me from prosecution. My Death Eater past was known, and I could never quite shake off all suspicion, but I had a job, a home, a position among respectable people, a life, even if not a happy one. I belonged to Hogwarts. I had no personal friends, of course. I could not confide in anyone. My terrible secret stood between me and every other human being on Earth, except Dumbledore. He alone knew about it; and he trusted me. He trusted me more than the Dark Lord had ever trusted anyone, and much more than my father had ever been able to trust me."

Snape was panting. Irene remembered how he had objected to the use of his memories in court. But he continued doggedly now.

"As you can perhaps guess," he said, "I grew extremely dependent on Dumbledore. I worked hard to deserve what he had given me. I wanted to be worthy of his trust. I wanted to prove that his benevolence was not misplaced. I was ready to do anything he asked me to do. When the Dark Lord returned, I became a spy ... again. But Dumbledore wasn't infallible. Due to some inexplicable carelessness, he was hit by a lethal curse. With the last of his strength, he summoned _me_. I saved his life – but only temporarily. I couldn't do more than win another year for him to live. I felt angry because he had not been careful enough; and this was the first time that I had seen him not as my powerful mentor but as a very old man who needed to be looked after by a younger one. And of course, I was to be that younger man… Dumbledore had no children, and his favourite student was only a teenager. I was growing up at last."

His black hair fell into his face, and Irene could not see his expression clearly. But merely hearing his voice seemed to be enough to petrify her. She knew what he was going to talk about next.

"I would have stood by him, trying to prolong his life and ease his suffering till the end. But he needed me only as a _spy_. On the very night when I saved him from immediate death, he asked me … to kill him. I protested … but my will was nothing against _his_. I … had to promise what he wanted."

Snape was shaking now.

"I can't tell whether he realized what this request meant to me. He acted as though it was just another order he, as my commander, gave me. Yet … following our agreement, he seemed to be distancing himself from me. He didn't have time… and I needed him more than ever.

Snape raised his head, and Irene mustered the courage to look into the hollow depth of those dark eyes.

"Dumbledore knew you wouldn't fail him," she said.

"Do you understand it now?" he asked wearily. "I was born to ruin my mother's life; I caused the death of the woman I loved; and I was forced to physically kill the man I regarded and respected as my true father. I never, for my life, wanted to harm any of them. My love must be cursed… it's destructive and murderous. I mustn't experiment with it any more. I couldn't bear … to be once again the instrument of death for someone I love. Don't tempt me to risk it."

He shuddered violently again. Gently, Irene made him sit down, and she put her hand on his forehead and began to murmur a soothing, healing spell, smoothing away the lines of anxiety on his face. After a while, she could feel him relax.

She stepped away from him and stood waiting, wondering how much of the hour they had left. She had come here to find a way to help him, not to upset him. The original plan was still valid; between them nothing had to change. She would continue to stand by him as well as she could – as a healer or as a friend or simply as his contact in the world of free wizards and witches – she would be whatever he needed her to be. If she was able to love him, too, it was only an added bonus. She would be as faithful and determined as _he_ had been, without expecting anything in return. She wanted to be worthy of him.


	22. Before Christmas

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 22**

_Before Christmas_

Mr Grey's day was becoming decidedly hectic. It started with the trial of a convict who had attempted to run away; continued with one of the healers' unheard-of interference in the affair, her claim that the guards and supervisors were all mistaken and her request for a visit that – in accordance with the fresh sentence – should have been impossible; then to top it all, the other healer also decided to put her overlarge foot down for the sake of the same convict - or (as she said) in the interests of her patients.

"You either replace him with a similarly reliable potion-maker _now_ or let him return to the hospital immediately!" Healer Sharp demanded. "We must fight the flu and a number of other contagious diseases, including the recent outbreak of spattergroit, and Healer Burbage will soon leave for a whole week! Who do you think will deal with all the potions to be made while the patients are queuing outside my door?"

"You could order ready-made potions again," Mr Grey suggested.

"And wait for them for months!"

"Snape must be locked up for two weeks. We have sentenced him," said Mr Grey, trying to look firm.

"Then lock him up in his laboratory! It'll be a lot more useful than keeping him in prison, where he does nothing for his living. What's the purpose of this camp anyway?"

Like Percy Weasley and Snape before him, Mr Grey had to learn how difficult it was to argue with Healer Sharp. With this last argument, she did have a point… and the potions were needed not only by the convicts but by the employees as well.

"Do you think he could be trusted?" the Warlock asked.

Healer Sharp shrugged.

"We'll keep an eye on him, of course. He hasn't tried to poison anyone so far, and I don't see why he would do it now when his every step is watched. As for his skills, he's a very able potion-maker."

"It's not only about potions," Mr Grey explained. "He has recently attacked Tanner, and not for the first time. We don't want to encourage this behaviour."

"That first attack was really violent," said Healer Sharp. "But this time Tanner has captured him easily without being harmed himself. If you're afraid for our safety, I can tell you it is absolutely unnecessary. If anything happens, we know what to do. Snape's on Control Solution. He wouldn't be seriously dangerous now even if he had a wand."

And so it happened that Snape returned to the potions laboratory only a day after being sentenced by the camp authorities. The prison sentence was still in force – for two weeks he was to be escorted to his workplace and back to the prison cell by a guard every day. He was officially forbidden to leave the hospital during working hours, although that meant no real change: He hardly ever stepped out of the laboratory in the course of a workday anyway. No one, except for the guard on duty, was allowed to enter the laboratory from outside, but Snape did not miss visitors. What mattered was that Irene, Healer Sharp and Mrs Primrose had their own direct access to the laboratory from the adjoining examination room.

Snape had ample experience of going through awkward situations, and this time, too, he did his best to ignore the searching looks of the hospital employees when he first appeared in the company of a prison guard, who dutifully announced the new rules concerning him. All in all, things could have been much worse. Healer Sharp acknowledged his return with a curt '_at last'_, but she still did not betray one iota of interest in him – unless Snape counted her willingness to personally make use of the immune-system-strengthening potion that he brewed. Mrs Primrose remained her usual chatty self, but she refrained from asking too many questions. The only change in her behaviour was that, as Christmas was approaching, she got into the habit of making pastries or a pie almost every day, and she insisted on everyone in the hospital tasting them. She tended to give especially large portions to Snape, providing him with a favourable alternative to the rather poor prison food.

But neither Mrs Primrose nor Healer Sharp caused Snape as much anxiety as Irene. He had very good reason to want to avoid _her _– the confession he had made to her the day before seemed to render all further communication between them very difficult. Since Thursday was Irene's day off, he did not expect to see her immediately after his return. She was in the hospital nevertheless, working full time as on any other day, due to the unusually large number of patients.

At first, their interaction was strictly professional and largely unavoidable. Irene was friendly, but in a far too polite way, and Snape reacted in a similar manner. Later, when Irene's lunch break started, she visited him in the laboratory, and it became clear that they were still friends, only they were noticeably more cautious, more tactful even, in their relationship. It was as though both of them knew that the other one was suffering from a secret, incurable disease and took special care to avoid anything that might give rise to unpleasant emotions or to an uncomfortable train of thought.

There was one problem, however, that, in Snape's opinion, had to be addressed urgently, regardless of any other considerations; and it was the necessity for Irene to learn to properly defend herself. He went as far as offering to teach her, and Irene obliged – more for the sake of humouring him than because of her own conviction though. They had a long weekend for these lessons since Snape was making a potion (for spattergroit) that had to be brewed for seven consecutive days, while Irene, who was going to leave the camp to spend some time with her parents, had agreed to substitute Healer Sharp on Sunday, because the older healer needed an extra day off before being left alone for a full week. Therefore they both spent the weekend working, and their lunchtime meetings became regular.

"That was better," Snape said laconically, stopping a cauldron that had begun a dangerous dance as Irene's Shield Charm had shaken the laboratory.

He did not stop brewing during the 'lessons', but he organized his work so that Irene's visits coincided with the stages of potion making that required only minimal attention. Irene lowered her wand with a tired smile. She knew that his standards were high and he would not give her performance more praise than it deserved.

"How about Disarming?"

"Oh … I'll practise it at home. At my parents' house, I mean."

Snape responded with a glum nod. Contrary to what reason dictated, the fact that Irene was going away for a week did not entirely please him. _Of course_, he explained to himself, _it was no use __leaving if she was intending to return_.

"Are you _still_ thinking about coming back?" he asked suddenly.

_Perhaps she had changed her mind since their last talk_.

"I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't be going away at all. Not until Mr Weasley is back."

"Don't be ridiculous," Snape snapped. "I walked among Death Eaters, faced the Dark Lord's whims and suspicions, I can't tell you how many times, without anyone to watch over me, without any backup. What is Tanner compared to that?"

Irene did not bring up the possibility of postponing her trip any more.

"How much do you know about poisons?" she asked the next afternoon.

She had just made two cups of tea and was already drinking hers, gazing at Snape with a contemplative expression. Snape, who had not yet touched the other cup, was putting on protective gloves.

"A lot," he replied curtly, grabbing a bunch of nettles and starting to cut them up. "Why?"

"Are you experienced in making them?"

Snape's hand with the knife stopped in midair.

"Am I accused of anything new?"

"No, I'm just … curious."

"Curious…" he murmured in a strange tone.

"Yes."

"Well, I am. Any more questions?"

"What did you use them for?"

Snape cast a sharp look at her.

"You must be training to become an auror. What are you insinuating?"

She took a sip of her tea.

"Nothing at all," she answered.

"How do you like this explanation: I used them to test my students on the antidotes they had learned?"

"Of course … but you didn't actually … poison them?" she mused.

"No students were ever harmed. But Amycus Carrow spent a long week in the Hospital Wing once."

"What did you do to him?"

"I had to leave Hogwarts for a couple of days, and Amycus was formally in charge of the school during my absence. Some restraint was obviously necessary, and the easiest solution was a drop of poison in his morning tea… It was much less than the lethal dose, naturally, but it caused him to take quite a break from cursing others. What else could I have done?"

"How did you prepare that drop?"

Snape put down the knife and gave her a piercing glance.

"Irene, who do you want to poison?"

Irene blushed.

"It's a … rat. What did you think?"

"Do you want me to -"

"No, thanks. You've got other things to do, and this laboratory is strictly for medical purposes only."

Snape was watching her closely.

"I don't believe you're capable of poisoning even a rat."

She gazed into her empty teacup.

"It's a particularly nasty rat. It's driving me mad. Can I have the recipe?"

On Monday, Irene left the camp. Tanner was in hospital with a particularly nasty stomach problem. The coincidence gave Snape food for thought, but whatever he had on his mind, he kept it to himself. He was busy anyway. He had to brew five different potions for the guard alone.

Thus Snape's time in the camp prison was surprisingly trouble-free. Yet, instead of relief, he was feeling some growing sadness and disquiet, which had nothing to do with the troubles he had had so far – not even with the fact that his sentence had been extended by five more years. From where he was, fifteen years or twenty years seemed to make no difference. They were equally, impossibly long; and he did not believe he would live to see the end of either one.

He did not even find the usual meagre pleasure in the hours he spent brewing potions. It seemed now just as thankless an occupation as anything else there was to do in the camp. Mrs Primrose's continued kindness meant little comfort, and even the surprise that he discovered in one of the ingredients cupboards on the day of Irene's departure – a large and delicious cake addressed to him – gave him more uneasiness than consolation.

These days the convicts were allowed to receive letters, packages or visitors; and although Snape had no one to start a conversation with (except for Mrs Primrose), he did pick up some news, and he found out that Narcissa Malfoy had arrived to visit her son and her husband. There were others, too, who were able to re-establish some contact with the world outside. Snape, however, expected neither letters nor visitors, and he did not miss anyone but – Irene.

He could not deceive himself any more. Despite his efforts, he was definitely attached to her. But his conviction that it would be much better for _her _if she never came back to the camp was only growing stronger.

Not even in his laboratory was he able to get rid of certain harrowing thoughts; and potion-making seemed to be proceeding extremely slowly. Then, what he had never done since his teenage years, he put the ingredients into a cauldron in the wrong order one day, spoiling half the morning's work and wasting a significant supply of plant and animal parts. Apparently, he was getting old finally. Not just _feeling_ old - getting old. Nearly bursting with anger inside, he opened the window, emptied and washed the cauldron, and started to prepare a new set of ingredients when suddenly the door of the laboratory opened wide, and a whole group of people entered. In the middle of the group, surrounded by grim-faced body guards and nervous supervisors, walked the Minister of Magic.

"This is our potions laboratory," Snape heard Healer Sharp's voice, sounding so soft that it was hardly recognizable. She was chattering away to the prominent visitor, who had arrived at the camp at a very short notice just an hour before. Snape did not try to conceal the contemptuous little smirk appearing briefly in the corner of his lips, but he did not really feel amused. Visitors in a zoo. Just what he needed at the moment. Without making the slightest attempt to look remotely sociable, he bent over his work anew. Audience notwithstanding, he would not spoil any of his potions again – he had five cauldrons to watch even without the one the contents of which he had had to throw away.

He glanced up only when the laboratory was at last silent, and he remained staring at Kingsley Shacklebolt's solitary figure standing with his back towards the closed door.

"I want to talk to you alone," the Minister said.

Hardly perceptibly, Snape shrugged his shoulders. He added the last gobletful of salamander blood of his potions stocks to one of the brewing liquids, and he meticulously stirred the cauldrons one by one. Then he glanced at the visitor again.

"Do you still think there's nothing you want to share with the Wizengamot?" Shacklebolt asked.

"I told them what I had to tell," Snape answered. "They didn't believe me."

"You couldn't have told them less without being completely silent," the Minister retorted. "They might have believed you, but you behaved as though you were guilty!"

"Using the Killing Curse is a crime according to our law," Snape replied. "You pointed that out yourself."

"And you are sure you did your very best to make them realize why you had used it and what could have happened if you had done otherwise!"

"The venerable members of the council could make some simple connections even if they receive only little help," Snape said acidly.

"It would have been different," Shacklebolt said, "if they had heard the reasoning from Dumbledore himself."

"Ah… do you think so?" Snape hissed. "Do you really believe Dumbledore shared his great plan with me?"

Shacklebolt's astonished look only fuelled his anger.

"He told me what I had to do but he rarely bothered to explain _why_ or _how_… In this respect, he treated me just like anyone else. I have certainly been able to deduce a couple of things on my own; but I have no memory of Dumbledore explicitly stating why the Killing Curse that I had to cast on him was vital for the great PLAN."

"He didn't explain …" the Minister sounded incredulous. "He must have told you his reason -"

"As I've said, it wasn't difficult to guess the advantages of making the Dark Lord believe that Dumbledore had died because of me. Even the Wizengamot might be able to grasp the basic idea. But what Dumbledore actually _told_ me had nothing to do with the plan."

Snape paused and shot a murderous look at Shacklebolt.

"If you are interested, I can tell you: He asked me to save him from pain and humiliation."

"That does not sound like the Dumbledore I knew," Shacklebolt muttered.

"That's the Dumbledore I got to know in the end. He may not have cared about those things in reality; but as far as memories go, apart from this very personal reasoning there's nothing exciting that I could share."

"But you could share at least that."

Snape's eyes flashed.

"I said _no_!"

"You could leave this place. You could clear your name," Shacklebolt continued stubbornly. "Wouldn't it be worth some … effort?"

Snape turned back to his cauldrons and began adding the next ingredients. This was a task he had to concentrate on; otherwise the potions would be spoiled again. He did not even respond to the question.

"Well, I see you are busy," said the Minister after a while. "I'm glad you have this laboratory here… But I want to ask you if there is anything else you'd like to tell me … or ask. Complaints, problems, requests… Is there anything I could help with?"

Snape kept on working.

"Did you ask the other convicts, too?" he snorted over his shoulder.

"I'm asking _you_, Severus!"

Snape stared into a cauldron, and when he spoke, he almost seemed to be talking to the boiling potion in it.

"There is one thing I want to call your attention to," he said.

"Yes?"

"It was a mistake to send Healer Burbage here."

"Why?" Shacklebolt asked sharply. "Do you have any objection to her work?"

"No. She's an excellent healer. Too good for this place, in fact. Give her a well-paid job in St. Mungo's or wherever she would like to be employed. She deserves it. Send here someone else, another Healer Sharp, for example."

"Did she complain to you?"

"Irene? No, she didn't. But I can see that in order to survive here, she'll have to lose her kind, innocent and sensitive personality and she'll have to become tough, sly, cold and eventually burned out, like the rest of us. If not, she'll be ruined or broken or driven to some horrible end. She's too young and too little experienced to see it as I do yet. Rescue her from us, Shacklebolt. That's all I want."

"Thank you for mentioning it," said the Minister. "It would be pointless to sacrifice her, wouldn't it?"

In reply, Snape gave a silent nod.

* * *

><p>Another weekend passed, and the next week brought a package of potion ingredients from Diagon Alley (as ordered by Snape), which landed on Healer Sharp's desk early in the morning. She sent word to the laboratory immediately.<p>

"These weeds must be cleared away and sorted into their cabinets without delay," she commanded. "I want everything in the usual perfect order before I leave this afternoon."

There were not only plants, but various animal parts as well as liquids. The package had apparently been manually searched before reaching the hospital, and some of the bottles and jars had been opened, meaning the ingredients stored in them either had been contaminated or would reach their use-by date soon unless they were suitably repacked. Cleansing and repacking were tedious tasks without a wand, and Snape had plenty of work to do before every new ingredient was at last safely in its proper place.

He had had an uncanny feeling all weekend – part of it was clearly due to being completely alone in a tiny prison cell but the main reason was Irene. She was supposed to be back in the camp until Monday afternoon the latest, as this time Healer Sharp herself was about to go on a lengthy Christmas vacation in a tropical holiday resort somewhere. There had been no news from Irene recently, and, following the conversation with Shacklebolt, Snape hardly knew what to hope for. Irene, however, did not turn up on Monday, and Healer Sharp knew better than postpone her departure because of a colleague's lateness. As a result, Mrs Primrose was temporarily left in charge of the hospital. She walked into the potions laboratory to share her concern about Healer Burbage with Snape.

"I hope nothing bad has happened to her," she whined. "Poor little Healer Burbage, such a horrible journey all by herself!"

Snape was silent. He was thinking of a different, more favourable explanation for Irene's absence. Shacklebolt was a man of his word and he had understood how cruel and stupid it was to make Irene suffer a punishment that was hardly better than the convicts' just so she could provide Snape with some comfort. Hopefully, Irene would now start a better, nicer and more prestigious job somewhere. It had been unjust to sack her from St. Mungo's to start with – the hag she had offended must have already been taken to Azkaban. Yes, Irene had seen sense at last. Or soon she would. Mrs Primrose would find out the truth in time, and she would completely approve of '_poor little Healer Burbage_'s' decision.

As for Snape, he might miss her, but it was the surest sign that her presence was dangerous. It would have been more and more difficult to be on his guard if he had continued to experience her kindness daily. For the moment, there was still a chance that he would be able to forget what it was that he had to refuse.


	23. Professor McGonagall's Gift

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 23**

_Professor McGonagall's Gift_

He lingered in the laboratory after the end of his official working hours. He really had a lot to do, and he was in no hurry to get back to the prison cell. The prison guard whose job was to take him back there grudgingly accepted the necessity of doing overtime. Snape had not taken a rest all day long and was still busy, yet somewhere at the back of his mind, he was well aware that all this was only a convenient pretext: In reality, he could not give up waiting for something… or for someone. Waiting for something that was not going to happen… waiting for someone who was not going to come. He diligently started to prepare the potion ingredients that he needed for the next day, when Mrs Primrose rushed in.

"Come at once, your help is needed!" she screamed at Snape.

Snape hurried after her. The little old nurse was walking surprisingly speedily for her age. Immediately Snape found out that three men had been brought into the hospital with severe injuries. Gregory Goyle. Draco Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy. The older Malfoy's head was bleeding, and Draco had a nose apparently broken in several places. Goyle, however, looked as though he had received a bizarre mixture of hexes and jinxes - and as it turned out, that was exactly the case. The three men had been found fighting, and it took several guards and a series of spells (most of which hit Goyle) to separate them.

Fights were not uncommon in the camp, but from Mrs Primrose's viewpoint, the current situation was unique. She was regularly in charge of the hospital at nights, but in case of an emergency, her main task was to summon one of the healers. Now, however, there were no healers to summon. With Snape's help, she managed to get the injured patients into the examination room. For a moment, she seemed to hesitate as though pondering where to start, but finally she decided on Lucius, although Draco was whimpering aloud.

She tended to Malfoy's head injury, while Snape was supporting Goyle, who was unable to even sit by himself. When the boy let out a painful groan, the nurse turned around.

"Finish this while I'm taking the spells off him," she said to Snape, hurrying over to Goyle.

Snape left Goyle in the witch's hands, and went to Lucius. Mrs Primrose had been putting some ointment on the head injury, and had already prepared a painkilling bandage, which Snape now secured to the patient's head. He probably did not do it as well as Madam Pomfrey or Irene had done back at Hogwarts when _he_ had been the patient, but the bandage stayed in place and the painkilling charm apparently began to take effect.

"How is Draco?" Lucius moaned. He smelled of firewhisky as usual.

Before Snape could answer, a horrible yell came from Draco's direction. Snape glanced over his shoulder, but he could not see the boy, only Mrs Primrose standing in front of him. Draco cried out again.

"You're killing me!"

"Draco…"

Malfoy's hand seized Snape's robes.

"Draco!"

"I'll check him out for you," Snape said.

Snape stopped beside Mrs Primrose, who had just tried to say something calming to Draco, but in vain. Draco could not be calmed down. His broken nose was swollen to at least twice its size, and he was obviously in pain.

"Fix it!" he screamed.

Snape stared at Mrs Primrose, wondering why she was not doing anything. The nurse looked back at him with eyes full of tears.

"I can't do it," she breathed.

The wand seemed to be trembling between her fingers.

Snape glanced at the old witch's wrinkled wand hand and understood. Though gently and not in an easily perceptible way, it was definitely shaking, and as she raised the wand again (half-heartedly murmuring the bone healing spell under her breath), it became clear that Mrs Primrose was unable to keep the wand pointing steadily at a single small spot. She had been able to take the spells off Goyle, however, a precise and delicate movement, like the one required by Draco's broken nose, was simply too difficult for her.

"Give it to me," Snape said and reached for the wand without thinking twice.

Mrs Primrose was so surprised that she forgot to protest, and passively allowed Snape to take the wand from her hand. Snape bent over Draco to examine his nose. The boy was again whimpering with pain. Snape was not a healer (technically, Mrs Primrose was not one either), but, he had used similar magic on himself on occasion, avoiding the need to seek professional help. He had never tried to heal someone else's broken bone though.

"You can't do it," Draco whined. "You don't have enough … magic. None of us … here -"

Snape glared at the boy so fiercely that Draco thought it wiser to stop speaking.

"Unless you want to end up looking like Dumbledore," Snape said frostily, "you'd better do as I tell you. Keep quiet and don't move until I say you can. Understand? Very well."

He murmured the spell that Mrs Primrose had used before, and the borrowed wand kept pointing steadily at the fractured nose. _Not enough ...magic?_ Draco shuddered involuntarily as his nasal bone was healed.

"Will I get my potion or not?" shouted a rough voice at the open door. "And, Snape, since when have you been allowed to hold a wand?"

Mrs Primrose and Snape turned in the direction of the door at the same time. Tanner was standing there in his pyjamas, his eyes fixed on Snape.

"Shouldn't you be in prison now? Where is Healer -?"

"He's helping me out," said Mrs Primrose, visibly frightened. "I asked him to help. Neither of the healers is here, but I'm coming with you at once, Mr Tanner."

"I'll be right back," she said to Snape, taking the wand back.

She followed the guard out of the examination room. At the same time, a fair-haired woman in elegant black robes stormed in.

"Where are they?" she demanded.

Snape stepped aside, letting Narcissa Malfoy run to her precious son and hug him, crying for joy or for sorrow or maybe for her eternally wounded pride.

"What's happened?" she asked, and Draco took the opportunity to breathe again.

The boy whispered something to his mother, casting resentful glances towards Goyle and Lucius. Narcissa hurried across the room to her husband, passing Goyle on the way. Goyle shifted uncomfortably when his eyes met hers. He could be happy that visitors had to hand over their wands upon arrival.

Snape, who was waiting for Mrs Primrose to come back, was watching the scene with a strange feeling of emptiness inside. Narcissa and Lucius could hardly have looked more different now, and their present reunion seemed anything but happy. Yet, Narcissa (at the moment angry and disappointed) had not left her disgraced husband, though he no longer possessed any of the qualities that had once made him a very eligible suitor for a daughter of the proud Black family. After all the horrors Lucius had put through his wife and son, could Narcissa still love him? Or did she see him merely as Draco's father? What could make this pathetic shadow of her former husband still important for a woman like Narcissa Black?

Mrs Primrose returned, and with Snape's help, she placed the new patients in wards. Goyle had to share a ward with Tanner, but at least he was separated from Lucius and Draco, who were allowed to stay together. While Narcissa was talking (possibly giving instructions) to Lucius, Draco caught Snape's glance.

"How can you _still_ have so much magic?" the boy muttered.

Snape pretended to be deaf and looked away. He hoped Mrs Primrose would not be too eager to give him credit for healing Draco's nose in front of Healer Sharp, who might just double his dose of Control Solution, by way of gratitude. So far, he had been prescribed two doses of the potion, the first of which had been replaced by coffee, while the second one had ever existed in the hospital's files only, which had been dutifully falsified by Irene.

If Irene did not return, he would have to rely, in future, on himself to protect his magic from Healer Sharp, who had, by this time, successfully put everyone except the weakest of wizards in the camp on Control Solution. Luckily, he had had enough opportunity to make a plan that he would be able to implement immediately it was necessary. Among the potion ingredients the hospital had just received was a small parcel that had been ordered by Irene but paid for by Snape. The contents of that parcel would be enough for him to brew several doses of antidote against Control Solution, but it was still wise to refrain from openly demonstrating too much magical power.

He was not worried about Draco spreading any gossip. If Draco told anyone anything in connection with his adventure, it would only be about his own role in it - but the incident was hardly suitable for bragging. Tanner could be a problem though. The guard had seen him holding a wand, which meant breaking a very important rule, and Tanner was likely to exploit the possibility to get him deeper into trouble. Explaining the emergency situation would probably help - but the case could still attract unwanted attention. Healer Sharp, like many other witches and wizards, might fail to appreciate the true extent of magic that an exceptionally good potion-maker needed, but she could surely estimate what it took to heal a broken bone.

He went back to the laboratory and began washing up knives, scales and cauldrons and putting the ingredients away. Although he knew that the guard on duty could come any minute, he took his time. Just as he was locking one of the cabinets where ingredients were stored, he heard a knock on the door leading to the examination room. He was puzzled – he had expected the guard from the other direction, and he had not expected him to knock.

"Enter!" he called, after some hesitation.

The door opened and Irene stepped into the laboratory. Snape gaped at her, but she smiled at him in her usual manner, or maybe a little cheekily this time, knowing she had defied his wish.

"You've come back," he said. It was half a question and half a statement.

"Yes," she replied. "Did you really hope for the opposite? Or were you just testing me by setting the Minister on me?"

He shook his head. She was free to make her own choices, but he would be on his guard more than ever. Right now, for example, he would not allow that joyful little bubble inside him to grow too large.

"I suppose after such a warm welcome, you want to ask me to sit down," she said, looking amused.

Snape pulled out a chair for her silently as though he had lost his voice.

"Anyway, what did you say to Mr Shacklebolt?" Irene chattered on, sitting down. "I had the impression he was angry with you."

Snape snorted contemptuously in response.

"Maybe _angry_ is not the right word," she mused. "Frustrated rather. But so was I. It wasn't very nice of you to try and get me sacked behind my back, you know."

"I didn't want to let you grow into a cold-blooded poisoner here in front of my eyes," he muttered, and began scrubbing a still dirty cauldron laboriously.

"I don't know what you mean," she replied in a tone that made it perfectly clear that she did know. "But let me help you."

She flicked her wand at the cauldron, which slipped out of Snape's hands with a clinking sound and began cleaning itself. That did not make Snape any happier. He was running out of things to do.

"You're late," he observed after a minute's silence.

"That has nothing to do with any job offers," she said. "The wetland guide did not show up all day long, and I had to wait for the crossing. I met Titania – she had waited quite long, too."

So Mrs Primrose had been right after all. It was the journey.

"I arrived at the village about an hour ago," she explained, "and I've dropped by to check on the patients. I realize you have been without a healer for several hours."

"And how are your patients?"

"Mrs Primrose did a good job. I hear you helped her …" Her gaze seemed to caress him as she said that. "The Malfoys will get better soon. Tanner's quite well already, but I'm going to insist that he stay in hospital and in bed for another week. Just to be on the safe side," she added with a chuckle.

Snape was drying the clean cauldrons, placing one inside the other on the table.

"I've just heard that you are still working," she continued.

"I've already finished," he said, pulling down the cauldron tower he had just built.

"I've finished, too, and I'm about to go back to the village. Mrs Primrose has promised to alert me if I'm needed."

Snape nodded and cleared away the cauldrons and other tools.

"I've been to Hogwarts," Irene said abruptly.

Snape did not respond. He did not like to be reminded of his old 'home'.

"I've brought you something from -"

She was interrupted by the opening of the door. The guard on duty entered without knocking (as guards always did). He was a baby-faced youth who had left school only a few years before. He had been rubbish at Potions.

"It's time to go," the guard announced, after a brief nod towards the healer. "You'd better hurry up."

Snape reached for his cloak slowly, taking care not to betray any emotions. Back at Hogwarts, Jones used to be shaking in his boots whenever the Potions Master was in sight. Irene looked crestfallen.

"I forgot you were still -"

She left the sentence unfinished.

Snape put on his cloak with a bitter taste in his mouth. Irene had forgotten that he was still being punished. He felt he would give a lot for being able to spare her this realization.

"Mr Jones," Irene said suddenly, stepping closer to the guard. "Could you do me a favour? You remember Professor McGonagall of Hogwarts, don't you?"

The guard pulled himself to his full height.

"I was in Gryffindor, Healer Burbage."

"Excellent," she said with a strange smile. "Professor McGonagall has sent something to her former colleague. It could be very important. Would you mind if I showed it to him today?"

"Professor McGonagall has sent something to _him_?"

The guard's voice resonated with disbelief.

"Professor McGonagall continues to think very highly of Professor ... of the _former Professor_ Snape," she corrected herself hastily, with a half-glance at Snape. "I suppose you know her handwriting. Look."

She opened her handbag and handed a parchment decorated with the Hogwarts crest to the guard, who read it out sotto voce.

"_Healer Burbage, could you, please, come and see me at Hogwarts before you return? There is something here that Professor Snape should see, which I'd rather not send by owl post. I believe it is important. Prof. Minerva McGonagall_."

"Will you let him come with me for a few minutes?"

"Well ... of course," said the guard with hesitation. "Where do you want to go?"

"To my house in the village. I left Professor McGonagall's gift there."

The guard looked horrified.

"Healer Burbage, his prison sentence is still in effect! He mustn't go anywhere besides the hospital!"

"Tomorrow is the last day of the sentence, isn't it? We wouldn't be away for long. Mr Jones, it's almost Christmas," she pleaded, giving the man a smile that Snape had never seen on her face before.

It was not simply a very kind smile - it was a charming, coaxing smile, and the guard was almost visibly melting.

"The … convict is in prison," he said nevertheless. "He's not allowed to go anywhere."

"But he won't be on his own, he'll be with me. A few minutes will do. It's important. Please."

"I'll go with you to the village," the guard agreed reluctantly. "You won't have much time though. It's almost eight o'clock now… If the convict is not back in his cell by eight, he'll be in trouble."

_And so will you_, Snape thought to himself, scrutinizing the guard with undisguised antipathy. He did not understand why Irene was doing something so obviously against the rules. What could possibly be so urgent, and why could she not bring the mysterious parcel to the camp the following day?

Irene beamed at the guard.

"Thank you very much, Mr Jones. I'll tell Professor McGonagall about your kindness. She'll be proud of you."

They left the camp in the company of Jones, and Apparated to the village together.

"I'll wait here," said the guard in a tone of warning. "We must get back five minutes before eight the latest."

Irene nodded, and set off briskly towards her house with Snape by her side. Soon the guard was out of hearing distance. Snape had been silent for a long time, and he could not bear it any longer.

"You shouldn't have done this," he began without any preamble.

"You will like it," she replied.

"What?"

"Professor McGonagall's gift. She's sent you something that you can only see here. I can't take it to the camp to you."

"Why not?"

"Why, because it's magical. You mustn't keep any magical objects in your house."

"Doesn't Minerva know this?"

"Well, it's not simply her gift. She was ... keeping something for you."

They reached the gate of her house, but Snape was feeling more furious than curious.

"Whatever it is, there was no need for you to do that!"

She gaped at him puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

"To ask the guard ... like that."

"Like what?"

"You must know what I'm talking about!"

Her real or pretended failure to understand him only made him angrier.

"You were ...," he spluttered, "… you were using your ... feminine charm to … to -"

He broke off, seeing with shock that she laughed.

"Could you say that again, Severus? Using my _what_?"

"The way you looked at him … What will he think now? How many more Tanners do you want?"

Irene hissed as though she had been stung by a wasp.

"Since I was asking a great favour, I think I had to be civil to him!"

"Civil? Do you call that smile and that look _civility_?"

Irene regarded him with a glacial stare.

"I meant well," she said finally. "I wanted to ... Oh, forget it."

She shrugged and directed her wand at the gate, turning her back at him. Snape felt a sudden regret.

"I didn't mean to offend you, Irene," he muttered. "I'm ... s- sorry."

The whole affair seemed so familiar and the role he was playing in it was so degrading that it made him flush. She turned back.

"It's all right," she said with genuine kindness.

The gate opened. Snape followed her inside.

"I know you meant well ... but I don't want you to do this for me," he said in a much calmer tone.

They were walking down the dark path leading to the house, but Irene stopped now.

"Does it hurt you if I smile at him?" she asked sharply.

The question took him unawares. But he fought on.

"As a way of securing a favour for _me_, it does," he answered proudly. "If you _like _to smile at him ... that's different, of course. Whatever I think, I have no right to interfere then."

"Whatever you think? And what is it that you think? I'm curious."

Snape felt trapped.

"You'd deserve someone better," he said at last.

They entered the house, and Irene cast a long, bitter look at Snape.

"And what if '_someone better_' does not want me?"

It seemed the air was far too hot for a house that had been uninhabited for a week. Snape unbuttoned his cloak (around the neck, it seemed to be strangling him), but it did not help because the heat was, in fact, coming from her eyes rather than from the fireplace. Neither of them was thinking of Professor McGonagall's gift.

"You're too good for anyone here," he said quietly. "There's no one in this wretched camp who deserves you."

He could not take his gaze off Irene's eyes, in which he recognized now, for the first time ever, the same desperate determination that had led him to seemingly impossible tasks in the past. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff above a dizzying abyss, whose depth was inviting him to forget everything and jump...

"You might have been happier if you hadn't come back to this accursed lot," he added. "But I missed you ...I have no words to tell you how I missed you... "

That was all he managed to say, as those wide, desperate eyes were drawing him closer and closer. He had one last fleeting thought acknowledging that he was failing the test of fortitude, and then, for a long time, there was nothing but the all-encompassing sensation of kissing and being kissed. He emerged from the kiss feeling as though he had had a goblet or two too many of a sweet, heavy wine, and was now clinging with both arms to the only fixed point in a shaking universe.

He loved her. May he be forgiven for this latest of his sins, but he dared to love her. He might as well tell her ... although she must have guessed it by now. Still ... how did a man do that?

"Irene," he whispered, convinced that the confession could only start with her name. "Irene," he repeated, stroking her hair, and then once more: "Irene..."

But just then, she tore herself away from his embrace. With her arms stretched out, she was holding his hands, but at the same time, she kept him at arm's length. He did not understand.

"Severus, you must leave immediately," said a trembling voice.

Leave? Immediately? Impossible. He was not greedy; he would not presume to stay _too_ long, but..._immediately_? In a moment like this?

"Are you sending me away?" he asked; his voice strikingly similar to the voice he had had shortly after the snake-bite.

"You must go back to the camp," she said, close to crying. "Don't you remember? The guard is waiting for you. We are running out of time and I didn't even show you Professor McGonagall's -"

"Not yet," he murmured, trying to embrace her again. "Don't make me leave yet."

"Have you forgotten what the guard told us?" Irene looked frightened. "If you are not back by eight o'clock ... I'm sure another guard will soon be on duty ... Oh, Severus, they will hurt you if they discover you're not in the camp! It was my idea; I mustn't let you suffer for it!"

"It doesn't matter what they'll do," Snape said stubbornly. "I'd get myself tortured for another half an hour with you."

"But it matters to me!" Irene screamed. "If they hurt you, I'll be hurt, too! Come, hurry up!"

She was dragging him towards the door.

"Don't you realize they have the power to separate us? And that poor guard, too," she added pleadingly, "he's risking his job for you!"

"Or for you," he said, cooling down finally.

Sobriety was bitter. He freed his hand from hers.

"No need to throw me out, I'm leaving myself."

He hurried across the yard with long, heavy steps. Irene struggled to keep up with him.

"Severus," she said, "come back on Christmas Eve. The convicts will be allowed to spend the holidays in the village with their visiting loved ones. You could stay here."

He stopped.

"Their loved ones," he said, peering through the darkness into the brightly shining eyes.

"If you think I qualify ..." she whispered.

He made a movement (which she might or might not have seen in the dark) as though he wanted to embrace her again, but the movement halted halfway. He turned and was soon gone. Irene was shaking violently as though with fever.


	24. The Greenhouse

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 24**

_The Greenhouse_

Snape got back to the camp unnoticed and in good time to spend his last night in the tiny prison cell. He was too busy with his thoughts to pay much attention to what was happening around him, though Jones, the guard, appeared to be nervous enough for both of them.

Snape could not sleep that night. He kept thinking of Irene, and he recalled the details of the unlikely turn of events between them again and again, trying to discover how fate (or just coincidence) had led them towards the moment which (he was absolutely certain of this) had been completely unexpected to both of them. His mind was working busily, analysing not only what had taken place but also in what ways the scene could have continued if … if he had not had to leave in such a cruel hurry. If the two of them had been somewhere else together … if they had not had to part at all...

He tormented himself with these fantasies for quite a while. Then his thoughts became focused on the promise the near future held: Irene had invited him to spend the holidays with her … in her house.

The invitation was generous, but was it realistic? The convicts were allowed to spend Christmas with their visiting loved ones … and surely, mothers and wives, like Narcissa, or even girlfriends, might come and visit. Irene was different, however. She had never had any connections on the dark side, her name was clean. He could think of a thousand ways in which real or perceived intimacy between her and a convict might harm her.

Suppose he accepted her invitation … what would his status be in her home? He could not go there as a friend any more. Their relationship had changed, and his feelings were now known not only to himself, but to Irene as well. And what would happen after Christmas? Would things just go back to … _normal_? Could they?

Spending a few days with Irene, away from the camp, sounded like a dream come true. But the way they had parted (the memory still stung) made it clear how far away they were from even the possibility of a real relationship, and how irresponsible it would be for them to nurture any hopes of one. And that was not all.

Turning around in that poor excuse for a bed, in the tight darkness of the prison, he was sinking deeper and deeper into a quagmire of doubt. Irene had been frightened after the kiss. She had apparently been afraid _for_ him, rather than _of_ him, but was this assessment a hundred per cent correct? Perhaps passion had made him deaf and blind to her true feelings… It was difficult to believe that anyone – even Irene – should worry about him so much, and he could not help thinking that her anxiety for his safety might have been – perhaps – mingled with a more primal fear.

After all, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her without any warning. And how had he responded after being told to leave immediately? They had been friends before … _only friends_ … working together or spending Sunday afternoons together… Long walks and conversations… He had too often been dependent on her in the deepest, most physical sense of the word. But now, for all she knew, he might have wanted to take control suddenly … At the same time he had lost control of _himself_ … Was she _really_ prepared to know this side of the man she had claimed to love? Was her experience of the kiss the same as his – or perhaps something completely different?

Those questions tackled an area of expertise he was painfully ignorant about. The only time he had loved before his feelings had remained unrequited, devoted to an idealized woman and later to her memory. A romantic relationship with Lily was a dream he had never truly believed in; and Lily had broken up with him well before he could have mustered the courage to approach her _that way_ … That rejection, coupled with the torture he had suffered on that summer day under the beech tree, left his shaky self-confidence in ruins. How many lonely hours, how much fury and frustration were invested into the invention of Sectumsempra! But he had no invisibility cloak, and while he was alone, he was an easy target of hostility or ridicule; therefore he melted into the only group that accepted him and shared his loathing of James Potter, as the Dark Lord was recruiting a new army of young Death Eaters…

Yet, as a youth he did not want to miss out on anything important. He was angry with the whole world after Lily had chosen a husband as though her purpose had been to hurt her former best friend as much as possible. He wanted to prove that Mrs Potter did not count, that he could live without Lily, and he hated being regarded as a pathetic loser by his more popular peers. Therefore he shed his inhibitions and made his loveless attempts at gaining the experience that all men must have – with very mixed results.

His memories of those attempts ranged from the bizarre to the outright mortifying. In retrospect, it seemed he had never managed to be truly alone with the odd casual partner he had sometimes chanced upon - Lily and her contempt had always been with him, and not only Lily, but Potter as well. He had been unable to shake off the trauma of being exposed to Potter's revenge and everyone's ridicule, the trauma of being publicly humiliated in his masculinity by a triumphant rival. This worst and most paralysing of his memories before Lily's death had regularly surfaced when he least needed it, until he finally mastered Occlumency.

Snape shuddered. The long, plaintive sound of a dog's yelping came from the direction of the village, the village where Irene was. His thoughts flew back to her. For a few happy minutes that evening, there had been nothing else, in his mind, but Irene and himself; and he longed to be able to feel the same again. But Irene was far away; and the past kept coming back to remind him of reality as he knew it.

Ultimately, the experiments of his youth had given him no memories that in his adulthood he could cherish. They were enough to rid him of all romantic illusions about sexuality, and his disillusionment was made final by certain very revolting scenes he had witnessed in his Death Eater and spy years.

Those scenes had taught him exactly how far the things that happened between men and women could be from love. Such pleasures held no attraction for him. It had been the mindless, openly animal instinct (rather than any moral consideration) in those days that he had found the most appalling; and he had rejected the degrading behaviour pattern above all because of himself. Yet, he could not say with any honesty that this rejection had been conscious and proud from the start. Peer pressure had been strong, and he had tried to conceal his disgust as much as he could. He used to wonder what was wrong with him…

Later … it all passed. The anxiety and the mourning for Lily wiped out all frivolous interests forever and made him a man who indulged in nothing but the exuberance of guilt and the pleasure of self-torment. When he was filled to the brim, he let the negative emotions overflow … it did not make him any more popular.

_Enough was enough_. Snape sat up in the bed with his face buried behind his hands and his eyes tightly shut. His repeated failure at Occlumency made him especially vulnerable to so many bad memories, and now it seemed almost certain that Irene had been frightened and revolted by the manner of his advances. Though she had returned the kiss, afterwards she had wanted him to leave without a moment's delay. Should he be surprised? No one had loved him before, and he was no expert at giving a woman pleasure. Still, she had invited him for Christmas. Of course, that might only show how impossibly good she was … or how little she knew her own feelings.

By the morning, he had almost resolved to go and tell Irene that they both had been wrong, when something happened that put all potential Christmas plans into jeopardy. Instead of being escorted to the potions laboratory, he was marched to the camp courtroom, where he was called upon to explain himself in connection with a report of illegal wand possession.

Tanner had not been wasting his time – but his efforts to get Snape punished again did not pay off. Mrs Primrose confirmed Snape's version of the hospital incident, even though she was reluctant to give a full explanation of why she had agreed to hand over her wand to a convict instead of healing a broken nose herself.

A short debate ensued, in which the participants agreed that a convict must not hold, let alone use, a wand in any circumstances. Their opinions differed, however, regarding what might be a sufficient reason to overlook the breaking of that rule.

Draco Malfoy's life had not been in danger, but he had been in pain, and Snape's swift action had saved him from further suffering at least. However, giving a convict a wand had not been the only possible course of action, since Mrs Primrose could have performed the same magic herself. But Mrs Primrose had been under significant stress with three patients needing urgent treatment at the same time – and the convict had been the only other hospital employee present. Finally, he had not used the wand for any other purposes but the healing, and he had given it back to Mrs Primrose immediately after the healing had taken place.

In the end, they let Snape go with a warning that he must not forget his position in future and should not regard the discussed event as a precedent giving him any sort of licence to practise wand magic. Mrs Primrose was likewise warned to observe the rules of the camp more thoroughly and to remember that the help she could accept from convicts was wandless help at all times except when there was no other way to save a life.

Snape hardly heeded the strictures. He was interested in one aspect of the verdict only: He was _not_ prohibited from visiting the village on Christmas Eve. He had feared that he would end up with that sort of punishment, and despite having previously all but convinced himself that accepting Irene's invitation would be a mistake, the possibility that he might be _forced_ to turn it down reinforced his desire to accept it. He would have hurried to the hospital now, but Mr Grey told him to follow him into his office.

In the office, the Warlock offered him a seat. That was unusual – he did not normally try to be polite towards convicts.

"I'm glad this … misunderstanding has been sorted out today," he began slowly, apparently looking for the words as he was speaking. "I hear your contribution to the hospital work is quite … significant."

He paused as though giving Snape a chance to comment, but Snape had nothing to add. The Warlock cleared his throat and continued.

"Your imprisonment for that … unfortunate … affair has ended today. You must know that it has been an exceptionally light punishment, since you have not been required to actually spend your days in prison."

Mr Grey cleared his throat again. Snape was getting impatient, but his face revealed nothing of his thoughts. This silent indifference made Mr Grey nervous.

"You, who must live and work here, have all been convicted by the Wizengamot, and their decision binds us all. We do try to be fair nevertheless and do not want to treat any of you with unnecessary severity. Though we have the right to extend your punishment in accordance with your actions here, I would like to remind you that the additional sentences imposed on you by the camp authorities can be taken back as well, as a reward for good behaviour, for example. Bear that in mind."

Snape wondered what Mr Grey's purpose was with that speech. He expected some sort of continuation that would unveil the main point behind it, but Mr Grey hurriedly finished the interview, and Snape was allowed to leave.

The waiting room at the hospital was full, and Snape knew Irene was busy. He, too, had more than enough work to do, and the best part of the morning had already been wasted. He seriously considered visiting Tanner to personally inform him about the results of the hearing (just to see his face), but in the end, common sense prevailed, and he spent the following hours in the laboratory. Mrs Primrose popped in once to pick up some cough drops and to ask if everything was all right, but otherwise he was left to work – and to think – in peace.

Now that he had resolved to accept Irene's invitation, he began thinking of the necessary preparation for the holidays. Particularly grand ideas were out of the question, but he wished he could at least leave behind that air of imprisonment every convict was marked by and which was more recognizable and ignominious than any uniform. Most of all, however, he needed to get a Christmas present for her, and that could be a very difficult task.

Irene came to see him at the usual time. His heart was beating faster already with anticipation as the moment of her visit approached, and when she entered, a mere glance from her was worth a thousand arguments against any doubts that he could harbour regarding her feelings. He hurried towards her and she gave him a warm, comforting hug. But the passionate kiss of the day before was not repeated. The hospital was a workplace, after all, and as a part of the prison camp, it had an atmosphere in which such moments of blissful abandon seemed impossible. They both knew that their meeting was not a date, and the feeling that united them was not happiness. The words usually spoken between lovers would have been out of place here. The silence of the first moments was broken by Irene.

"It was so unfair to drag you to court again," she said.

"I survived," he murmured, touched by the indignation she was expressing on his behalf.

"Did they hurt you?" she asked softly.

"No," he replied.

"Mrs Primrose has told me everything. You did a perfect job, and you deserve gratitude for helping us so much. Draco must be thankful, too."

Snape's mouth twitched. Draco had never known what gratitude was. To change the topic, he told Irene about Mr Grey's puzzling behaviour. She gave a strange little smile.

"When I was in London, I told the Minister how you had been accused of an attempted breakout and what had happened in reality. Mr Grey must have received certain … _instructions_ since then."

At the end of the day, they both stayed in the hospital to have tea together. Mrs Primrose was with them, too, talkative and lively as always. In the evening, Snape returned to his hut. He was prepared to find it plundered and empty, but everything was as he had left it two weeks before. Irene had obviously kept an eye on the protective magic around the place, thus the sickles and knuts he had managed to put aside, as well as his other possessions, were still where they had to be.

He counted the money that evening. It was not much to spend on one's Christmas shopping, but that was only a minor problem. Even if he had hundreds of galleons, he would find himself unable to buy a proper present for Irene simply because there were no shops selling suitable goods in the camp. He could not possibly surprise her with a sack of potatoes or a box of matches at Christmas! He knew, of course, that taking a present was not a prerequisite to Irene's hospitality; that she was perfectly aware of his circumstances; and that her love had no mercenary aspects. But that only made him want to give her a Christmas present even more.

The next day, he left the hospital as soon as it was possible (much to Irene's surprise), and went to the camp greenhouse to buy some flowers for her. That was his only idea, and the recently established greenhouse surprised him with a wealth of magical and non-magical plants. The selection of flowers was relatively modest, however, as the place specialized in fruits, vegetables and herbs. He chose some white Christmas roses, because they seemed appropriate for the occasion, but he was not satisfied. Flowers were more than nothing but less than enough. He lingered for a while in the greenhouse - the bright colours and the warmth tempted him to stay. He wished Irene was with him.

All of a sudden a strange noise stopped him in his tracks. It was like the sound of a woman crying, not far from him, on the other side of an evergreen shrub. There had been a time when his instant reaction would have been leaving as quickly and as silently as he could. But his year as Headmaster of Hogwarts had taught him to keep his eyes and ears open to the smallest signs of trouble. Now, especially, he had one particular woman to think of, therefore instead of fleeing, he noiselessly turned in the direction of the sound.

His steps must have already been heard though, because the sobbing abruptly stopped, and before he could tactfully retreat, the leaves of the evergreen plant were swept aside, and Snape stood face to face with Narcissa Malfoy. She had not counted on someone being quite so close – that was evident from her expression. Neither of them could pretend not to notice the other one.

"Narcissa," Snape said in greeting.

"S-Severus," Narcissa answered, trying to look composed.

They had been old acquaintances – partners in conspiracy even – but they had never really known each other, never really known what the other one was capable of. They had not talked to each other since the end of the war; still, Snape knew from experience how much readier the _other side_ was to believe Harry Potter's testimony about him than the Wizengamot, so that they all had come to regard him as an enemy. Narcissa, too, must have realized that he had deceived them all – yet, no one could deny that he had kept his promise to _her_ at least, if only because it had been in accordance with his true task and Dumbledore's plan. Perhaps it was due to the Unbreakable Vow that had bound him to her for nearly a year or to the fact that Narcissa had been weeping on his shoulder once in her great distress, but he could not be indifferent to her tears now.

"Getting … ready for … Christmas, too?" she queried, probably to divert attention from her tear-stained face.

She stared at the flowers in his hands.

"Yes, I am," he replied, relieved to be able to both answer truthfully and pretend they were just old school-mates meeting by chance in a flower shop before the holidays.

"I see," she said, regaining some of her cold, pureblood manners. "You will celebrate alone, of course."

"No," Snape said, straightening his back without knowing about it. "Not alone." Then, perhaps to prevent further questions, he added, "I hear Draco and Lucius have recovered."

"They've left the hospital today," she answered. "I … still need to buy a few Christmas presents, and then we will be ready to celebrate … Malfoy-style."

"Good luck," he replied, then, struck by a sudden idea, he asked another question. "Where will you buy those presents?"

"I'm going away in an hour," Narcissa explained, looking proud and distant as she had done in the old times, "I hope you don't suppose I'm buying presents for my family _here_."

"Ah … and where do Draco and Lucius get presents for you and for each other?"

"This year I am buying all the Christmas presents for the family," Narcissa replied in a lofty tone.

It was now or never. He had saved her son's life, after all. He had to be quick otherwise he might change his mind.

"Could you buy something for me, too?" he asked, carefully assuming a casual voice.

Narcissa clearly had not been prepared for that. She was not in the habit of running errands for others, and Snape was not the Dark Lord's powerful advisor any more. But then Snape _had_ saved Draco several times.

"What do you need?" she inquired coolly.

"A … present," he answered cautiously. "Something that a woman would like… a woman who would … deserve the best."

That was a rather vague description of what he needed, and Narcissa was eyeing him suspiciously. He reached into his pocket and handed her all the money he possessed. He had to endure the superior glance with which Narcissa regarded the sum, but it was nothing when he had a purpose.

"A present for a woman who would deserve the best …" she repeated, "…but gets contented with something less?"

"Whatever this can buy," Snape said, letting her remark pass. "But it must be nice."

Narcissa pocketed the money.

"I'm coming back tomorrow afternoon at about five o'clock," she said. "I'll go straight to the village. Can you meet me right where I reach the shore?"

"Where is that?" Snape asked.

"It's always the same place where the guide directs vehicles. There are some sheds there … for tools and equipment."

Snape nodded.

"I know that place. I'll have to leave the hospital early, but I'll manage."

"If you are late, I'll put the present into the second shed for you so you can pick it up any time," Narcissa said. "I won't be able to wait. Goodbye, Severus."

For the rest of the day, Snape wondered if the idea to ask Narcissa to help him get a Christmas present for Irene was a good one. On the one hand, Narcissa and Irene were so different – what could Narcissa choose that Irene would like? On the other hand, he did not have much choice unless he wanted to surprise Irene with a box of tea bags sold at the camp shop. Still, if Narcissa brought back something that he could not imagine for Irene, he would not be able to buy even tea for her now.

But he had some flowers for her in any case.

On Thursday morning, Snape went to the laboratory earlier than usual. The hospital was exceptionally quiet - very few patients turned up that day. People had doubtless postponed their illnesses until after the holidays. He spent most of the day brewing potions for the coming days in advance. Irene and Mrs Primrose predicted an increase in various stomach problems, which were likely to occur as convicts (and guards) met their visitors from home and filled their stomachs with long-missed home-made food or shop-bought delicacies. So Snape prepared the necessary supply of potions.

Irene went home at noon. Mrs Primrose was staying in the hospital during the holidays, but Irene was to come to work in case of an emergency only. Snow clouds were gathering when she left, and she offered to return for Snape and Apparate with him to the village in the evening (convicts were not allowed to leave the camp until 6 o'clock), but Snape refused the offer. She should wait for him in her house. He could get there alone even if it snowed.

He stayed a few more hours in the laboratory to finish brewing; then, wishing happy holidays to an astonished Mrs Primrose, he hurried back to the hut. It was still early enough to get ready for the evening and to meet Narcissa on time. (He did not consider it a good idea to leave Irene's present unattended in one of the sheds.) As he set out, the snow was falling in large, thick flakes, and a sharp, gusty wind was blowing. But he thought of Irene waiting for him in a warm living room, and he did not mind the snow and the cold.


	25. The Mist

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 25**

_The Mist_

He was walking towards the place where the attack of the Death Eaters had almost cost him his life. Going back there in the dark and the cold made him uneasy, and it even occurred to him that Narcissa might lure him into a trap; however, since _he_ had turned to her with a request this time, he was obliged to trust her. Naturally, they could have met in the village, but it was very much like Narcissa Malfoy to refuse to see him, just out of pride, in or near the house where she was about to celebrate with her family.

The lights of the camp were soon veiled by the snowfall, but he knew the way roughly, and he struggled ahead by the dim light of the non-magical lantern he was carrying. The weather was getting colder and harsher as he approached the winter wetland, and the snow under his feet became deep. He did not consider turning back when the snowfall developed into a full snowstorm - and it was too late to turn back when a gust of wind knocked the lantern against a tree and the light went out. He was covered in snow, but he did not stop to sweep it off his cloak and his hood. He continued walking doggedly in the same direction, towards the sheds – they could not be far now.

He wondered if the usual winter conditions had been 'enhanced' by magic as part of the security system in the camp. (Tighter security measures were probably deemed necessary when so many convicts were allowed to leave the fenced area at the same time and large numbers of visitors were arriving in the village.) He could only guess how much time had passed like this, but it seemed he should have already arrived; yet no matter how he was peering through the snowstorm, he could not discover any shapes that might be the sheds. He kept looking for them, reluctant to admit the possibility of having already missed them, the possibility of having gone the wrong way, the possibility of being lost in the starless night.

He did glimpse some glimmering light eventually, and he could only hope that it was coming from the sheds, and perhaps from Narcissa, or maybe the bog-guide who led travellers across the wetland. It was unlikely that many other people were prowling the place in that weather and at that hour, though a few more visitors might be arriving that late – but only a few. After some hesitation, he set off towards the light, which kept disappearing and reappearing at the distance, without getting any nearer; yet it was the only light he was able to see.

By the time the snowstorm petered out and visibility improved, his sense of direction had become as confused as his sense of time, and he could not tell whether he had been following a straight path or a curved one. He kept staring at the mysterious light as though for support, when he recognized, with a jolt of self-reproach, the smoke-like substance around it. How could a one-time Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher allow himself to be deceived by such a commonplace instance of dark magic? He was even able to make out the outlines of a strange creature, but the vision lasted only a moment. The wind whistled past his ears as the light that had guided him went out for the last time, and he was standing in complete darkness under a cloudy night sky, far from any man-made lights. Only the cold brightness of the snow illuminated the landscape.

He did not need to see anything in order to know where he had ended up – hinkypunks always left their victims alone in places where they were in most danger. He was far into the frozen bog, at the mercy of the elements and the wild creatures of the place, and he had no idea which way the village (or the camp) lay. He peered into the darkness again, and listened. In some respects, being alone would be the luckier option, but even that was an unlikely hope. Though he could not see any movement, and the whistle of the wind would disguise the sounds of quiet steps or light wings, he was almost certain that wetland dwellers, with some dark creatures among them, were lurking nearby, waiting for their moment to come…

Once again, he felt completely helpless without a wand. He had not even brought along a makeshift wand-substitute for fear that the tighter security control at the exit would discover its magic. What was he going to do without any tools or weapons? If he saw stars in the sky, they would serve as points of orientation – he knew the night sky as well as any other educated wizard. But the sky was an unchanging black and the landscape dark and unknown.

Yet, standing still would not take him anywhere. He chose his way at random, treading carefully on thin ice that could crack under his feet any minute. He imagined Devil's Snares thriving in the depth… He felt increasingly cold, with no hope of shelter nearby, and he could not blame anyone but himself. The whole idea of a real Christmas present for Irene appeared ludicrous now – as if it was possible to pretend they were having a _real_ holiday! _Merry Christmas, you idiot_, he thought with self-deprecating irony. Narcissa had left the sheds long ago, and Irene might have to wait for him in vain tonight…

The wind unexpectedly stopped and the only noise he heard was his own panting ... it was frighteningly loud. He tried to quieten his breathing, to calm his heartbeat even, as he peered ahead once more. He could see nothing but some dull and damp greyness, impenetrable for the eye. The _mist_ … He had nearly run into the mist that marked the final boundary anyone from the camp could reach without an official and experienced guide. As Weasley had said, escapees would get locked into it and the guards would be alerted at once… As a matter of fact, in his current circumstances, being found by the guards seemed almost like a solution – but at what price?

He imagined Tanner gloating over his bad luck if he were found locked in the mist, having tried to run away and caught in the act... That would certainly make Tanner's Christmas… No - freezing to death would be a more welcome option than enduring the guard's triumph and suffering another humiliating punishment.

He backed away, but the mist seemed to be approaching - a blinding, suffocating presence, draining away his strength, until he could delude himself no more: He was surrounded by its inescapable magic and had nothing else to do but wait for the worst like an animal in a trap. Desperately, he tried to keep a cool head – panic would only make matters worse.

As though in response to his thought, he suddenly heard an eerie, unfamiliar voice:

"_A few more moments and he will panic_!"

The voice was sinister and cold as though it was the mist speaking to him, and Snape could hardly keep himself from screaming out.

"_As soon as he panics, the alarm will be set off_," the voice continued gleefully. "_A little bird in a cage, isn't he_?"

Damp laughter sounded, as Snape continued fighting against the terror that was about to overcome him. As long as he was brave, he was not completely defeated. But it seemed to be a losing battle.

He heard a voice again – a different, kinder one this time.

"_If he knew what power he has, you'd have no reason to be so glad_," said this other voice. "_If he recognized the magic at his disposal, if he were able to truly master it, what would become of your petty tricks_?"

The power and the magic he had at his disposal? His mind began working at a frantic speed struggling to understand the meaning of the words wherever they had come from. The damp laughter sounded less self-satisfied now and the kinder voice continued as though it was singing an odd lullaby.

"… _he took out the stone that had the power to recall the dead, and turned it thrice in his hand." _

The voice kept echoing in his mind. "…_ turned it thrice in his hand… the power to recall the dead… the stone that had the power…_"

_The stone_… He reached into his pocket and took out the small stone with the strange carving on it, the last remainder of a handful of Hogwarts soil. Could it be …? He remembered Lily appearing to him on another cold night. Had it happened by means of _that thing_? He was rather certain that he was not at liberty to recall her again and again … it would be impertinence beyond measure. There were others, of course...

He almost recoiled at the thought. Why would he want to recall the dead? He might be one of them very soon... how could they help him _live_? How could they help him get back to Irene once more? Still, if they were only able to save him from being caught in the mist, it would be worthwhile… He was in no position to be picky. Without thinking of anyone in particular (except for Irene, but she was one of the living), he turned the stone thrice in his hand just as he heard another peal of damp laughter.

"_How indeed? How_?"

Suddenly the grey wall of mist lit up, and he was surrounded by people … misty figures themselves, yet each radiating a faint light – the dead he had recalled.

Eileen Prince Snape's troubled face bent over him, and he, completely unprepared for such a meeting, gazed back at her, forgetting for a moment the immediate danger and trying to think of something to say to her…

"I'm so sorry, son," she whispered, but she offered him no help.

Suddenly a more familiar figure stepped to him – she looked the same as he had already seen her twice. So Lily had come to him nevertheless. He almost apologised for the inconvenience he was causing her when he saw that she was not alone this time. James Potter was by her side, the wizard Snape least wanted to see. He turned away before Lily could talk to him, scanning the small crowd of figures approaching from various directions.

He did not even recognize everyone. A stout man wearing medieval armour, with a weather-beaten face and a mane like a lion's, stared at him hard.

"You could still try for that sword, you know," he growled, "that is, if you chose me -"

"_The sword_!" a sarcastic, sharp voice interrupted. "And much use would it be to him at the moment!"

A wizard Snape had only known from a portrait appeared in a different form.

"Professor Snape!" the wizard cried. "Whatever happens, remember you have been and you will always remain a Headmaster of Hogwarts! You don't need any swords to be sure of that!"

Snape was getting weary of this bizarre cavalcade of people of the past, and it seemed the mist was laughing at him again…

"Know your heart's desire," said yet another woman's voice, and Snape recognized Charity Burbage.

"I wish I had been able to save you," he muttered.

This was the first time he had both felt the need to speak and known what to say. It was difficult to meet her eye though. Yet, considering how often he had seen her die in nightmares he could not control, he managed tolerably well.

"I could not have come here otherwise," she nodded.

His mouth was dry. He wanted to say something about Charity's niece as well – or to ask a question perhaps, but something prevented him. Charity, however, was watching him with apparent interest.

"But now _you_ need help," she said finally.

How could he ask her? How could he expect Charity Burbage of all people to help him? He could not even bear her gaze for long.

"Look, Severus," she said.

He looked up. A tall, bearded figure was standing silently in the background apparently waiting for Snape to notice him. Later Snape could not recall how all the others had disappeared or how the mist had retreated, but all of a sudden he was alone with Dumbledore. His feelings were mixed, to say the least.

"So you have found it after all," said the light-and-shadow likeness of Dumbledore. "I tried to keep it from you."

That was a strange greeting from someone coming back to him from the afterlife, but Dumbledore could not surprise him any more.

"Keep it from me?"

"The Resurrection Stone," Dumbledore clarified, "the stone that has the power to recall the dead. It was in my keeping for a while… Now it is yours," he added kindly.

Snape thought of how he had been checked for magical devices perhaps a thousand times in the past six months - how had he been able to carry such a powerful magical object unnoticed?

"The Resurrection Stone cannot be detected with the usual magical means," Dumbledore explained. "It can hide quietly in a ring or in a piece of sports equipment or even in a handful of forest soil - until someone discovers its use, which does not happen very frequently, I must tell you."

"You tried to _keep it from me_?" Snape repeated slowly. "When?"

"You were quite close to it once," said Dumbledore. "I didn't want it to destroy you as it had destroyed me." He raised the hand that had died before him. "You were needed alive."

"I know," said Snape, his mouth twitching.

How did Dumbledore _dare_ to remind him?

"But never mind," Dumbledore continued as he began walking lightly on the ice, with Snape following him closely. "You didn't need the Resurrection Stone to recall people from death."

"What are you talking about?"

"You saved my life," Dumbledore replied. "You made it possible for me to live and work another year. You saved Harry's life several times, I know. It was a nice job, Severus. You saved Draco and you saved other students from mortal danger. You helped Harry defeat Voldemort. That's more than anything you could have achieved by using that stone."

"Recalling people from death …" Snape echoed as though in a dream.

Probably the loneliest Headmaster of Hogwarts ever, he had been surrounded by the dead anyway – only the dead, every day, all the time. With such a tool, he could have at least chosen the company he preferred - what harm would it have done? But he remembered seeing Lily with James Potter by her side and he gave a slight shudder. It might not have been much good after all.

"The stone could not have done the trick, Severus, not really. It would not have been worth the risk. The dead may be able to do you a small service now and then, but you need the living more than them. Look at me. I'm here, but I will leave you eventually, although I am able to show you the way wherever you want to go."

Snape stopped.

"Anywhere?" he asked abruptly.

Dumbledore nodded.

"Anywhere."

Snape turned around, casting a tentative, perhaps longing look at the mist behind. But he rejected the idea at once. _Getting across the mist would not solve anything_.

"I agree," Dumbledore said quietly. "Besides, you don't need me to show the way there. The mist will show you any time."

"But I couldn't get through it by myself," Snape replied reluctantly.

Dumbledore cast a faint, delicate smile.

"You have never really tried, have you?"

Snape felt a constriction in his throat. What did Dumbledore know about him? It would have been a relief to pour all his bitterness on the old man, but it was impossible. This Dumbledore was much more distant than the living Dumbledore used to be. They walked in silence for a while.

"Not even I know enough of the secrets of the Resurrection Stone," Dumbledore mused, "though I had spent a life-time looking for it. But I guess it is safer to use it when it is not a purpose but a means only – and, of course, it matters what you need it for. You seem to want life much more than a conversation with the dead."

"Why did you come here then?" Snape demanded. "To show me my way - again?"

Dumbledore shook his head.

"Only to give you directions," he answered. "The destination is your choice."

"I sometimes think I have run out of choices," he said, feeling a stab of irritation at hearing Dumbledore's favourite word.

"You're wrong," Dumbledore said mildly. "A lot must happen before one runs out of choices."

"Well, a lot has happened to me!" he snapped.

"And you still have a choice," Dumbledore replied.

Snape once again experienced how difficult it was to argue with his late boss and commander. But he needed a few minutes to calm down.

"I can't believe I still need you," he muttered. "After all this time…"

"I feel honoured," Dumbledore said. "But you are doing well without me, Severus … quite well."

"Oh, of course … is _this_ what you meant for me all along?" Snape hissed indignantly.

"No," Dumbledore replied, glancing around. "_This_ was not my intention. But we both knew the risks, and we knew what was to be lost or gained… My job is finished and I'm not going to give you any more tasks. But you can still fight on… if you choose to fight."

"How could I still fight when I'm buried in a prison camp alive? And what for? Who needs me?"

"If you find a purpose, you will find the means. Your chances to change your life have never been better. As for who needs you … that's a question you must answer for yourself."

Snape swallowed hard.

"Someone is waiting for me in the village nearby," he said after a pause. "I promised … to go there tonight."

Dumbledore nodded.

"You will go to the village then," he said.

Soon, or at least much sooner than Snape had expected, he caught sight of the sheds. Narcissa must have already left, but he was alive, and that was quite an achievement. He looked back only once – just in time to take a last look at the fading figure of Dumbledore. He was aware that he had just missed a unique opportunity to ask the really important questions and to say all that troubled him, all that he had told the old man in his mind so many times – but he could not feel the regret too deeply. He was filled with longing for Irene, who would not be waiting for him in vain after all. Feeling the Christmas roses under his cloak, he headed for the second shed with renewed hope.

It was easier to find his way around now – the sky had cleared up, and the area was illuminated by the moon and the stars. Entering the shed, Snape lit a single match, and he immediately found the very small and very light parcel Narcissa had left for him, carefully wrapped in several layers of wrapping paper. She had kept her promise after all. He was about to step out of the building to open the parcel by the light of the moon when he heard a noise. He froze. There were steps outside the shed, though he could not hear any voices. But no one tried to enter. Whoever was there, they either had not noticed him or were not interested. He waited for a while; then he quietly slipped out of the shed.

As he walked past the first shed, he heard a noise again; and then someone spoke.

"I will do anything for you," said a drawling voice.

He instantly recognized Draco Malfoy. Well, well ... Narcissa was not the only one in the family who thought of the sheds as an ideal location for secret communication. Did she know what her son was using the place for? (Draco was repeating the promise - what was he hoping to get in return?) Poor Narcissa... Unless she herself had brought over a pureblood girlfriend she deemed eligible for her precious son, Draco could only be messing around with a Muggle girl from the village - hardly the kind of business Narcissa would approve of.

He hurried off, lest he heard more of those silly words. The night sky was quite clear now, and he only needed to know that he was safely alone. He stopped under the moonlight with an excitement similar to the one he had felt receiving a rare present in his childhood. But he was nervous, too. It was unlikely that the parcel could contain anything really suitable for Irene and for the occasion. After all, how could Narcissa _understand_ … Yet, it would be wonderful to give Irene something special … a real present. He stared at the small parcel in his palm and carefully removed the wrapping paper.


	26. Christmas Eve

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 26**

_Christmas Eve_

The white light of the waxing moon fell on the tiny jewellery box and met the shimmering light of the moonstone as soon as Snape opened the lid. His face was white with astonishment as he lifted the elegantly curving white gold ring out of the box to examine it. The gemstone's mysterious play of light nearly dazzled his eyes. Never in his life had such a thing been his to give.

He almost thought he had made a mistake somewhere, but the box was accompanied by a note from Narcissa stating that the parcel contained the item she had been commissioned to purchase on behalf of Severus Snape. Yet, Snape had never even dreamt he could buy such a stunning gift. Inexperienced though he was in the area of jewellery, he knew full well that the ring could not have been bought with the money he had given her, and he did not like the idea of being in debt to a Malfoy. What did Narcissa think she was doing? Worse still, he was indebted to her in exchange for something he could not use.

He touched the ring with his fingertips, stroking it gently, feeling it … checking it for anything extraordinary. It would have been easier with a wand, but his fingertips were sensitive enough to accurately detect traces of secret magic, and now they were telling him that the ring was neither more nor less but exactly what it showed itself to be: a beautiful engagement ring with a moonstone gem, further decorated with a pair of small diamonds.

Narcissa must have misunderstood him ... or she was playing a cruel joke on purpose.

How could he give Irene a ring? He had not specified his instructions regarding the present because he could hardly think beyond the moment of crossing Irene's doorstep on Christmas Eve, but he would not have dared to even suggest a piece of jewellery entailing the promise of a future – a future that was _not_ his to give.

The mere idea would mean abusing her trust and her innocent goodness. It would make him brutally, unspeakably irresponsible. She was generous enough to love (or to imagine loving) such a hopeless wretch - how could he ask for more or promise anything when he had nothing to offer besides... besides things that no one had ever wanted yet?

He closed the lid and put the jewellery box into an inside pocket of his cloak. He did not know what he would do with it. It was painful to realize that after all the trouble he had taken he would have nothing to give her for Christmas. He would arrive late without even being able to offer an acceptable explanation. He had wasted all that time for nothing.

* * *

><p>Irene was torn between worry and disappointment. In one moment she was sure something terrible had happened; in another she concluded Severus must have changed his mind. She had already exchanged messages with Mrs Primrose - she had inquired whether everything was all right in the camp, and Mrs Primrose had informed her that everything was quiet and nothing had happened at all.<p>

There had been a snowstorm though, and Irene had actually been down the path towards the camp to check if Severus had not been involved in an accident on his way towards the village, but she had discovered nothing. As for actually going back to the camp and see if Severus was still there - that she was unable to do. It would have been mortifying to find out he simply did not feel like coming.

The way he had told her to wait for him at home suddenly seemed to have new significance. No matter that he was surrounded by deadly enemies, that he did not have a wand, that the weather was awful, that he had to walk down a path where finding help would be very difficult, he refused the assistance that would have been so easy for her - Apparating back for him to the camp and taking him along to the village. Perhaps he did not want anyone to watch over him, as she had thought before, but perhaps it meant something more ... something she could not guess.

She waited therefore, as he had asked her to do - though not exactly patiently. She tried to find some occupation; but everything was ready for the celebration, and she was unable to focus on anything unrelated to Severus. As time went by, it seemed less and less probable that he would still arrive, and she had just decided to Disillusion herself and to go and find proof, if possible, that he was safe in the camp when the doorbell rang.

Severus was standing at the front door, weary and pale, clutching a bunch of Christmas roses.

"I'm sorry," he said.

That was definitely not the way he had intended to hand her the flowers - but why would anything happen as planned?

"Come in," Irene muttered, still confused.

She hurried off to find a vase for the flowers.

He took off his cloak and entered the living room, the centre of which was occupied by a Christmas tree. The room had a festive atmosphere, and the air was filled with the aroma of gingerbread and mulled wine. Irene placed the vase with the flowers on the coffee table. She was wearing a simple white dress, which suited her perfectly. The lack of ornaments emphasized her natural beauty, and at the same time saved Snape from feeling too out of place, attired as he was in his obligatory convict robes.

"This looks like a real home," he observed quietly.

He had never had the talent to transform a place into a home, but he was able to appreciate it in others.

"I'm glad you are here," Irene replied.

"I'm glad, too," he said. "I would have come earlier but I got lost out there … I almost got trapped in the mist."

Her hand flew to her mouth.

"You don't mean you tried to –"

"Of course not," he reassured her. "I didn't mean to run away."

"What were you doing then?"

"I'll tell you later," he answered. "It was a fool's errand. I'm glad it's over, and I don't want to think about it now."

That was at least true, except for the lie that he would tell her later. He could never tell her because if he did, he would have to speak about the ring as well.

The concerned look remained in Irene's eyes for a few seconds more, then, seeing how obviously he needed encouragement, she gave him a warm smile.

"What shall we think about instead?" she asked softly.

Snape did not respond at once. The ring in his pocket was a reminder that he had better not think of anything but the present moment. _Carpe diem_, he thought with resignation. Not much more had remained for him.

"The only thoughts that give me pleasure are thoughts of you," he said, but he still did not touch her. He was anxious to find out what his current status was in her house before deciding on how to conduct himself.

She took the compliment with another gracious smile.

"I haven't even thanked you properly for this invitation," he added earnestly.

Irene chuckled.

"Merlin's pants, Severus, you don't have to speak as though you were a foreign ambassador at the Minister's party! Sit down and make yourself at home!"

"Last time I was rather ... unreasonable," he continued, still with a view to making the situation clear. "You were right, of course. I must have lost my mind ... You can have no idea how difficult it was to leave you."

He hesitated, not sure how to get to the point from where he was, not even sure what the main point he was going to make would be. He did not have to say more though. Irene reached for his hands, and Snape drew her close, surrendering to the urge to continue the kiss where he had left off a few days before. She nestled against him. He breathed in the already familiar fragrance that he had first smelt on the night he had been deprived of his eyesight. For a long minute, he felt wonderfully secure.

"You did hint at it though," she whispered as their lips parted. "At least ... I took it as a hint when you said you would get yourself tortured for another half an hour with me... But I don't want you to be taken up on those words ever," she added hastily.

"I meant what I said."

"Well, no rush tonight," she replied. "You can say as much as you want ... and you can kiss me until you get tired of kissing."

"Tonight must be very long then."

"I would stop time if I could."

Snape felt a light tremble run through the girl he was holding in his arms. He thought he could remain standing and holding her for the rest of the evening, but Irene remembered that dinner was ready and waiting for them. They were to spend the whole Christmas together. Snape was to stay for the night.

She showed him his bedroom for the holidays, next to hers. It was the same room where he had been treated by her after the attack. The house was small, and that room was the best she could offer him, still, she looked at him a bit nervously, thinking of the bad memories the room might evoke.

"Will it do?" she asked.

"It will be splendid," he said, not quite understanding how anyone who had seen his hut in the camp could ask such a question.

She left him alone so he could settle down while she finished laying the table for dinner. This was the first time he had had a chance to thoroughly observe the room. Whitewashed walls, simple wooden furniture, a large window with a lace curtain and flower pots on the windowsill, a rustic rug on the wooden floor, and, of course, the bed where he had once slept holding Irene's hand… Well, this time they would sleep in separate rooms (as they ought to, under the given circumstances), though only a single wall would separate them, and Snape wondered whether he would be able to sleep at all.

He was rather perplexed as his gaze fell on a set of wizard's robes hanging outside the wardrobe. It was as though he had found an enemy hiding in the room - he stared at the outfit with a pang of jealousy. Then he understood. Irene had thought of everything. She was doing her best to help him pretend he was free.

As they sat down to dinner, Snape realised how hungry he was. In the camp, he had got unused to a good square meal and he had learned to ignore hunger. Therefore the dinner table (though it was very far from what he used to have at Hogwarts) almost shocked him with its richness. Irene was cheerful and brilliant; and more times than one, Snape found himself smiling, even laughing, as their conversation drifted from one _safe_ topic to another, in a surreal world where intellectual escapism met unacknowledged daydreams.

But this feast of merry denial could not last forever. More and more often they turned silent from one moment to the other, more and more often they left off speaking in the middle of a sentence, more and more often he gazed at her forgetting what he had been going to say, and when she caught his gaze, she blushed. Snape did not dare to touch her now, though he craved that touch more than ever. The thought that they were alone, with two days to spend as they wished, filled him with acute longing. Irene, however, seemed contented, and she gave no indication that she might plan or expect more. He was afraid of losing control, of perhaps unwittingly forcing her onto a path she was not prepared to take, a path that would not be in her interest to take.

Finally they both were standing outside the doors of the two bedrooms, ready to say goodnight to each other, and he no longer was able to resist.

"Good night, Irene," he said, and kissed her.

She returned the kiss with passion. Snape knew what common sense dictated – but a volcano in him was ready to erupt in protest against the arguments of reason. He was procrastinating, he played for time.

"May I …?" he began with an involuntary sideways glance at the door of her room. He was still pondering how to finish the question when she answered.

"If you wish."

That was all she said but it was enough to make him understand she would neither urge nor refuse him. She had made her choice and it was to let him choose. No one had ever given him such freedom to do as he pleased – but he knew that choices meant responsibility, and greater freedom meant greater responsibility. She was ready to accept _his_ decision with all possible consequences; therefore he had to choose what was best for _her_ – and he did not see how a couple of nights of passion spent with a man who had no future, who was not even expert at love-making, could be better for her than physical and emotional safety in the long run.

He could see in her eyes that she would give anything in her power to make him happy, and he remembered the night he had first wished he could be with her in this way. But he loved her now more than he had loved her then, and he wanted more, much more than what either of them could have received or given that night. Yet, he was aware that his wish was impossible, and the burden of twenty years of imprisonment fell on him with its full weight. It felt heavier than ever before.

She noticed his wavering.

"What's the matter?" she whispered.

"Forgive me," he replied.

Anxious to please her just as much as to protect her, he locked her into his arms more tightly.

"There's nothing obligatory about this," she said gently. "You have had a hard day. You must be tired."

"It is not that."

"What is it then?"

He sighed.

"I'm afraid you may just realize that you have found the wrong man in the wrong place and at the wrong time."

"The place and the time are given," she said. "What's wrong with the man?"

"Remember what I told you before you left to visit your parents? It is still true. I don't know how to love without risking hurting you, if not now, then later."

She knew that simply dismissing his anxiety would be no good.

"What exactly are you worried about?" she asked. "What can happen?"

He cast a haunted glance at her.

"I can't foretell the future. I never could. But I've seen mostly horrors so far and the present gives me no hope."

She watched him closely.

"Do you often think of those horrors?" she asked with sympathy. "Do you still have … bad dreams?"

He let go of her and took a step away from her.

"I do," he replied hoarsely. "It's getting worse and worse. I can't get rid of them anymore. Don't ask me to share them with you."

"Don't forget I'm a dream guide."

He shook his head, saying nothing. She hesitated.

"Is there anything …" she began, wondering how she could possibly put her question to words, "… did you do something you haven't mentioned to me yet? Something really bad?"

He was not offended.

"What counts as really bad?" he returned the question. "You know the worst already. But it isn't always easy to separate things I have done from things I have seen or tolerated. Even as a spy with a clear purpose, I found it difficult not to feel that I was part of it … not to feel guilty."

"It is over now. I can't even imagine how you were able to bear it then, but it is time to try and move on."

"Occlumency helped me," he explained. "It got me through my daily jobs without cracking and without giving myself away. But it doesn't work anymore. I'm opening up to my memories in a way I never thought I could … I believe it is because of you."

"Because of _me_?"

"You make me … unable to close down my mind."

"In this case, I am hurting you, Severus, not the other way round."

"No, Irene, no. It is not something _you_ do; it is my reaction to you. It is happening in _my_ mind. Anyway, as long as those dreams and memories concern only me, I can live with them. But it would be unforgivable if I contaminated _you_."

Irene watched a bitter little line becoming visible at the corner of his lips. She thought he needed plenty of good memories to fight the bad ones, but it was not the moment to suggest anything. He had not finished yet.

"And so," he said with a frown, "here I am talking to you about bad dreams instead of doing what any healthy man would do in my place. I can see that I have aroused your professional interest. An intriguing case study, I daresay. But I don't want you to act as a dream guide for me ever again."

Once more he turned away from her. He was sure she was already enumerating possible therapies in her mind. That would reduce him to the status of her patient again.

He should never have entered her bedroom. He should never have revealed to her so much. They could have had an agreeable holiday together and he would not have made a fool of himself.

"I'm afraid I've spoiled your Christmas," he snapped suddenly in anger and frustration.

It was too late for him to experience what other people called happiness, and he should have known it. In fact, he _had_ known…

"You can't say I didn't warn you though."

"I appreciate your honesty," she replied. "I have already told you - in my house you are allowed to have troubles, you are allowed to be less than perfect … or not on top form. It does not change the way I feel about you. That is the meaning of love."

They were both silent. He watched her for signs to verify or belie those words, and once again he was touched by her beauty. He had never had a girl like her. He had never had a night like this. But he could not be up to deserving the blessing that was so unexpectedly his. He could give her nothing. He had failed her, as he had known he would. Yet, she loved him. Slowly, and more for the sake of obtaining proof than for anything else, he bent over her again, and he found her lips ready to kiss him…

"I love you," he murmured, and it sounded like a confession of guilt, aimed at easing the unbearable torment of the soul. "And I want you … I want you at this very moment so much that it almost hurts, but I cannot … I must not make you a convicted Death Eater's lover."


	27. A Letter from Home

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 27**

_A Letter from Home_

Snape left the room. He rather felt like going out into the snowy night and die, but, of course, it would have been too much of a melodrama, which did not suit his taste. Besides, it would be unfair to spoil Irene's Christmas even more. He would stay until the morning and leave then. It was not just a spoilt night – he realized he had to give her up altogether now. A relationship with neither a future nor a _present_ was no relationship at all. He did not doubt that he was doing the right thing – but it was not the way he would have chosen for it to end.

Irene straightened her dressing gown and drew herself up.

"I need a cup of coffee," she said, heading out of the room after him.

"It is night," Snape observed.

"I know. Will you join me?"

Snape thought he needed something much stronger than coffee (a large dose of Firewhisky to numb him would have been a more welcome option) but he chose to humour her, and they went to the kitchen together. Irene took two cups and two saucers out of the cupboard, but she nearly dropped them. Snape helped her, and he ended up making the coffee on his own, while Irene was sitting deep in thought. She thanked him finally, but he only nodded in answer. Then he was drinking in subdued silence, pretending not to notice the anxious little smiles she was sending to him. She treated him with patience and understanding, and those smiles were so many comforting messages, but there was only so much compassion he could bear.

"Since when," she asked without preamble, "have you been thinking of yourself as a Death Eater?"

"I am convicted as one."

"By mistake. It is a very serious question, Severus. It would be one of the worst consequences of your imprisonment if you gave up the truth that you know and began to agree with those who have condemned you for crimes you did not commit."

"I've been condemned for crimes that I did commit," Snape corrected. "The Wizengamot and I differ on the question of motivations only."

"That's a crucial difference."

"Perhaps it is. The Wizengamot may have been wrong; their verdict makes me a Death Eater in the eyes of most people nevertheless."

"Along the same logic, in the eyes of most people, I may already be a convicted Death Eater's lover."

Snape threw her a sharp glance.

"I would regret it if it were so."

"The truth is," said Irene, "that _most_ people don't give a hoot what I do. Most people don't even know I exist, and the same goes for you, though I grant that you are more famous than I am."

"I obviously mean the people who know that you or I exist."

"Are you sure you have thought of all of them?" Irene asked. "Or is it just this prison camp with its gossipy guards and prisoners? Are we to be judged by them? I have friends away from here and so do you. The Minister of Magic himself is convinced that you should not have been convicted. Hogwarts believes you, and you have the support of Harry Potter and his friends. None of those people regard you as a criminal."

"Most of those people must have already forgotten me," Snape replied. "But should my name appear in the papers again, they would probably remember me as a dark wizard found guilty by the Wizengamot. You may not heed the convicts' opinion in this camp, but your friends and family would certainly caution you against me. Mrs Primrose has probably done so already."

"Oh, I do heed the convicts' opinion," Irene said. "They know better than the Wizengamot, don't they? Have you forgotten the word they carved into your body when they attacked you? I healed those wounds myself and _I_ will never forget them! Do they really consider you a Death Eater?"

With a sudden movement, she almost swept the sugar bowl off the table.

"And here is Mr Weasley," she enumerated, "and myself, and if you believe you are forgotten at Hogwarts or in London, well, you are wrong! You never read the papers these days, do you, Severus Snape? How do you know your name is never mentioned in them?"

She put down her cup in such a way that Snape would not have been surprised if it had broken as she jumped from her seat. She was working herself into a fury, and Snape watched her with a mixture of shock and admiration.

"But it's in vain," she continued, "none of it is any good, if you yourself, in your heart, accept the injustice that has been done to you and call yourself a Death Eater!"

With this, she broke down crying. Snape stood up and gently made her sit again. Holding onto the arms of her chair, he leaned over her.

"Irene, listen to me," he began. "I admit there is much truth in what you say. But justice is one thing … reality is another. If I were regarded as a Death Eater by everyone but you and walked free nevertheless, we might be able to find a way to live. This is not only a question of reputation. In a relationship, you have certain rightful expectations, which, in my present position, I am unable to fulfil. I can't take you out to dinner or to concerts ... I can't even take evening walks with you if that should be your wish. I can't promise you can count on me in your needs. I can't stand by you through and through because I'm not a free man. How long could you tolerate that?"

The words he had been turning over and over in his mind for the past few days came in a rapid flow as though a dam had been removed.

"I don't have irrational expectations," Irene answered, a little calmer now. "The only question is whether we _want_ to stand by each other in the given circumstances … no matter what."

"It might all be very well if we suffered it in the hope of being rewarded with a future. But there's no future I could offer you ... even if you were willing to consider such an offer from me. No future, no home, no family, not even a name that you need not be ashamed of ... there is nothing to compensate you for entering a relationship that is neither satisfactory, nor honourable."

He straightened up and averted his eyes from her.

"I cannot even claim that as a lover, I possess such rare abilities that could make up for everything else."

"Are you proposing," Irene asked "that we wait twenty years for a start?"

"Of course not," he replied, taken aback. "Other things aside, even if I survive twenty years in this place, I will only be an old Death Eater who has done his time. I would never expect you to wait even a week for such a pathetic prize."

He was pacing the kitchen now as he spoke.

"What is your suggestion then?" she asked quietly. "Before you say anything, let me tell you I am not ashamed of your friendship. If you really loved me, I would be proud."

_If he really loved her? She would be proud_ ... _How could she have so much faith in him_? _If only he had a chance to give her a reason to be proud of him_!

Snape had believed his speech was leading to an easily predictable conclusion, and yet, that was clearly not the answer she was expecting from him. Suddenly he realized she was right. His arguments were pointing in a different direction, to an alternative conclusion, which he had ignored so far - there was the chance he was wishing for.

He stopped pacing the kitchen and turned towards Irene.

"I will fight for you," he announced, not entirely without surprise at the sound of his own voice.

"Fight for _me_?"

"To deserve you. To be ... worthy of you. To clear my name."

_And to offer it to you then_ was what he would have liked to add if the idea had not seemed far too grand, far too presumptuous and far too hopeful to be vocalized.

Irene's face lit up.

"You want to fight for _justice_!" she screamed excitedly. "Oh, how proud I am of you!

But Snape, who ever since the ignominious failure resulting from his attempt to pursue a goal of his own had needed someone to inspire him (like Lily, who had not been able to love him enough, or Dumbledore, who had used him and had, in the end, deceived him), intended to fight for _her_ most of all. The idea of having Irene as a _prize_ soothed his conscience and gave him courage. To simply _take_ _her_ would have been wrong. He had to prove himself first even if she did not expect him to.

She rose and hugged him.

"You have my full support! What is your plan?" she asked.

"I'll request a new trial. I'll show them new evidence."

Her eyes grew huge.

"Are you talking about your memories? You refused to use them last time."

"Watching memories in a Pensieve," said Snape slowly, "is not the same as recalling them in your mind. I was afraid how they would affect me and what those strangers might witness ... not so much as they observed a particular memory but as they observed me. I thought I couldn't bear to do it at the trial and in front of an audience."

"But will you do it now?"

Snape was contemplating something.

"Will you, Severus?"

Her gaze, at once anxious, loving and hopeful, made Snape feel strong and young enough to face the combined power of Gryffindor's lion and Slytherin's snake if need be. The world would have to learn who he really was - and Irene would see he still had the stamina to fight... and to win or die trying.

"I will if I must," he promised reasonably, "although it may not come to that. There could be … another way. I believe I have evidence I didn't have last time."

It was a funny feeling: He had to struggle to be able to speak.

"But are you certain ... that you are willing to go through all this with me?"

She took both his hands so that their fingers intertwined.

"I was ready to do it as a friend months ago," she said. "I was hoping you would make this decision one day, and I knew you would have the support of more important people than a healer who had played no part in the war... But I had the opportunity to be here, on the spot, with you, and I thought I could make a difference, too. Yes, Severus, I'm determined to support you throughout this fight."

Snape was clutching her hands, trying to find the right words to answer, when she cried out suddenly.

"You must see it immediately! There could be no better moment … Come and help me!"

She ran back to her bedroom, opened the wardrobe and dragged out a large box. He followed her, and together they lifted the box onto her dressing table.

"Open it!" she said with enthusiasm. "It's yours!"

Snape gaped at the box.

"What is it?"

"This is what Professor McGonagall sent you. It's time you received it at last."

"Minerva? To me?"

"Yes, yes, open it!"

"Do you know what's in it?"

"I saw her pack it."

Snape opened the box. On the top, there was a collection of newspapers neatly bound with a string. Snape untied it, and took a newspaper into his hands. It was a copy of the Quibbler dated several months earlier. His eyes were caught by a headline circled in green ink.

_The Truth about Professor Snape as Harry Potter Sees It_

In another issue of the Quibbler, a letter to the editor was marked by the same green ink:

_Professor Snape Saved My Daughter from Torture_

The letter described an incident typical of Headmaster Snape's daily routine. In those months he had become rather good at rescuing students from the Carrows without letting anyone know that a rescue had taken place. The victims were usually too scared to realize they were being rescued – Snape used to put on his most threatening dark wizard expression, making it seem probable that something worse than torture was about to come. In this particular case, the girl found herself locked up with no food or drink for days, but a mysterious house-elf turned up (as it invariably happened in similar cases) to look after her as only a house-elf could, begging her not to tell anyone.

The house-elves had not always known whose orders they were following … Snape had learned to manipulate elves and humans so well that it had not always been necessary for him to personally give the command. Headmaster portraits privy to his secret goals as well as unsuspecting colleagues and ghosts had often been used as intermediaries. Months after the war, it seemed people were beginning to pick up on the subtle details at last.

In yet another issue, the green ink called his attention to an open debate:

_Severus Snape: Friend or Foe?_

From page to page, contributors to the debate were analysing his role in the war, each of them outlining a fairly subjective point of view, and many of them recalling specific incidents directly or indirectly involving Snape. He also found a recent copy of the Daily Prophet with an underlined headline in it:

_Member of Wizengamot Harbouring Doubts about Verdict - The Case of Severus Snape Revisited? _

"How long have you known about this?"

Irene had been watching him with bated breath.

"Only since my visit to Hogwarts," she answered. "The Prophet always gets here late; and I stopped reading the Quibbler soon after the war, when they returned to their old line of writing."

"Still, you have known this for days and never said a word to me!"

"I wanted to let you know as soon as I got back… don't you remember? I wanted to show you this parcel. I thought if I simply told you, it wouldn't have the same effect."

Under the newspapers, he found a notebook - it was his own, the book he had asked Minerva to fetch from his office for him, and which he had left in the Hospital Wing on the day of his arrest. He turned the pages, scanning the notes with keen interest. It was like finding a long-lost friend.

He was nearly overwhelmed by what he had already received, but Minerva's true gift was just coming now. It looked like a huge, rolled-up parchment, except that it was not parchment but – canvas. He unrolled it. It was a painting of Hogwarts castle and grounds; a magical landscape that moved in all directions as his eyes swept over it, giving him a full 360-degree view.

There was the well-known building with its many towers, turrets, doors and windows; there was the Forbidden Forest in the background; then the lake with Dumbledore's tomb; greenhouses on one side, scattered trees and bushes on the other side: the permanent scenery of so many happy and unhappy memories, of defeat and triumph, of trouble and comfort. The trees seemed to sway a little as though with a light breeze, and a bird flew off, fluttering its wings excitedly. There was an inscription, too:

_Hogwarts awaits you_.

"Perhaps you can keep it," Irene said. "It is magical, but it doesn't do more than the ordinary magic of pictures. It is practically decoration, which would brighten your place. Do you like it?"

But Snape kept staring at the picture silently. 'Like' did not describe half of what he was feeling. It was only the image of the real thing, and the inscription might be nothing more than wishful thinking; yet, he wanted to cling to it and to the promise it held.

The box was far from being empty yet. There was still a large object in it, wrapped in a thick piece of cloth. He carefully removed the wrapping from the top - and he had to grab the back of a chair very hard. What he found under the cloth was nothing else but Dumbledore's Pensieve.

It was unmistakably the same stone basin with the runes and symbols carved around the edge that he had so often seen, even used in the past; but he could not even guess what had made Minerva remove the magical object from Hogwarts and send it to him - what was Minerva's purpose? He lifted the Pensieve out of the box and placed it on the table; then he glanced into the box again. Perhaps he would find a bottled memory in it, something Minerva wanted him to see... But it contained no memories, only a letter; and in this letter he had to look for the explanation, as Irene was still silent by his side, though still watching his every move.

_Dear Severus,_

_Healer Burbage was kind enough to promise to take a few selected items to you. I hope you will find them useful. I have heard about your rise from an ordinary convict to the rank of the indispensable Potions Expert of the camp, and I cannot help but wish your services were at our disposal at the moment. Hogwarts still has not fully recovered from the battle and the previous events; although, thanks to you, the damage is not as great as it could have been. _

_I want you to know that you are not forgotten. As a reminder, I'm sending you this painting of Hogwarts (I had it painted specifically for you) as well as a selection of newspapers, in which certain articles will doubtless arouse your interest. _

_To explain them: Mr Potter and his friends, a dedicated group of young people, have been searching for new evidence in your case ever since the unfortunate verdict that ended your trial. It was Miss Granger's idea to start an open debate in the press in the hope that we might gain more public support and discover hitherto unknown details about your true role in the war. Mr Lovegood, ever thankful to you for saving his daughter from the revenge of the Carrows after the incident with the sword of Gryffindor last year, was more than happy to oblige. Since then, the results have exceeded all our expectations. The question of your true allegiance has stirred national interest (the opening article of the debate must be given some credit in this respect); and I'm pleased to say that the number of potential witnesses in your favour has greatly increased. _

_You will notice that not all participants of the debate have expressed favourable opinions about you; but, as Miss Granger so cleverly points out, the letters that support you very often reveal new, factual information (and that is what we need); while the letters of the opposing camp tend to dwell on a few already well-known events (such as Professor Dumbledore's death) or to air (otherwise understandable) grievances against Death Eaters in general. _

_I must also mention that the debate has resulted in Mr Lovegood's magazine being once again elevated to rarely experienced heights of popularity, so the continuation of the debate is in the best interest of all parties involved; and I may even venture the prediction that even if the debate were to die a natural death at this point, there would inevitably be an article (or a letter) designed to revive it. _

_In addition, the Prophet was bound to take note as well, and they have started to publish their own articles on the very same subject. _

_After your departure from Hogwarts, I collected your personal possessions left behind in the Hospital Wing. Of these, I'm sending you the notebook that you kept on the bedside table during your illness. Perhaps you still need it._

_You may wonder why I have sent you the Pensieve. I have recently realized you are probably unaware of the fact that this object is your rightful inheritance. I believe you had no chance to see Professor Dumbledore's will - unless he confided its contents to you while he was alive. Certain parts of the will became widely known soon after his death; others remained unknown to all but a few. As acting Headmistress of Hogwarts, I had the privilege to read the will in its entirety, and it is my pleasure to inform you about one of its many clauses, which I'm copying here: _

_"To my colleague and friend, Professor Severus Snape, I leave my Pensieve with fatherly love. May it serve him with justice."_

_The Pensieve was Dumbledore's personal property; therefore it has been legally yours ever since his death. The reason why I'm sending it to you is the reference Professor Dumbledore made to justice. Though I don't know what he meant by it at the time the will was written, I'm certain that currently you need justice more than anything, and the Pensieve may prove to be a valuable asset. _

_Finally, let me express once again my hope that a change for the better will soon take place in the present situation to the satisfaction of all your friends as well as your own. Please, let me know if I can be of any assistance to you._

_Yours,_

_Minerva _

"Is everything all right?" Irene asked with a trace of apprehension in her voice.

Without a word, he handed her the letter to read it. The efforts Potter and his friends were making in his interest and the extraordinary gift that Minerva had ordered to be painted for him all faded in significance in comparison with the impossible, unbelievable information that Dumbledore had remembered him in his will, leaving one of the most magical and valuable of all his possessions to him, and that he had done it with _fatherly love_.

Many months before, he had come to the so far unshakable conclusion that Dumbledore had not loved him. Dumbledore had helped him, saved him, supported him - but had not loved him. He had to pay for everything Dumbledore had ever given him.

Dumbledore had loved Harry Potter. There had been a time when Snape believed Dumbledore had used Potter just like everyone else; but in the Hospital Wing, he had realized Dumbledore must have had a good reason to hope that Potter would eventually survive. It was Severus Snape who had been sacrificed to give the Dark Lord a false sense of security so the Dark Lord should believe himself to be the master of the Elder Wand. It was a mere accident that he had survived - there was no secret magic protecting him.

It would not have been so bad perhaps if Dumbledore had shared all his plans with him. He would have done everything exactly in the same way had he known that little bit about the Elder Wand - and yet, Dumbledore's full trust and maybe ... just maybe some indication that Dumbledore knew what he was putting him through and was sorry about it would have made all the difference in the world. Now suddenly there was a letter telling him about Dumbledore's will and Dumbledore's fatherly love. If it had not been written by Minerva, he might have believed the letter and the gift to be a prank or at best a transparent white lie to provide him with some false comfort - but Minerva could never be deceitful.

Irene beamed at him.

"Isn't it wonderful?"

Snape could tell she did not find anything strange in the contents of the letter. But of course ... how could she understand what it meant to him?

"You should write to Harry Potter without delay," Irene said, "and inform him of your decision. It may take a while to start the process all over again, and I want you to be acquitted as soon as possible. In the meantime ... you can make use of this Pensieve."

"I can't even take it back to the camp," Snape replied. "It's full of magic."

"It'll be here... and you will use it here. We'll find a way somehow."

Snape stared at the stone basin. If that could be done, the Pensieve might indeed prove to be an invaluable asset. With the Pensieve, it would be easier to select the memories to be shown at the trial ... in case he _had_ _to do_ it. At the very least, he could test their effects on him. He could assess what he might and what he might not bear. Pre-viewing the memories, he could prepare for possible questions, the nasty ones included, and it would be more difficult to surprise ... or to shock him at the trial. _May it serve him with justice._ Was it the course of action Dumbledore had intended him to follow? Yet, not even Dumbledore had foreseen everything – not even Dumbledore had supposed that his _spy_ might find another way to give evidence in court…

Irene saw an expression of grim defiance appear on his face.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he replied. "Only ... it was the same Dumbledore who ordered me to kill him."

_He had never asked any such thing of Potter_, he thought.

"He never let me know that I meant anything to him beyond my usefulness in the war," he said aloud.

"Do you find it hard to believe that he loved you?" she asked, unerringly hitting the nail on the head.

He nodded.

Irene wished she could say something clever and reassuring, but regarding the secrets of the late Professor Dumbledore, she was completely ignorant. Therefore she simply hugged him again, and Snape forgot about the trial, the Pensieve and Dumbledore. _She_ was real. Tangible, true, constant. Understandable and reliable. She loved him the way he needed to be loved.

He embraced her as he embraced the gift of hope that had been delivered to him that night. Instead of the fragments of the past, he saw the future at last, a future worth fighting, working and even living for. Burying his face in Irene's hair, he whispered into her ear:

"Do you think you could give me another chance tonight?"


	28. Christmas Day

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 28**

_Christmas Day_

Irene wanted to scream and laugh at once when, without any warning, Severus lifted her off her feet and turned around with her. The night wind brought a watery smell into the room from outside, which mingled with the aroma of coffee in the house, and it somehow evoked the fragrance of infusion of dittany. She clasped her hands around him tightly, and let him carry her as he wished.

Snape's usually pale face was glowing, and his eyes shone with a warm light. Yet, not even the thrill of the moment could entirely overcome the feeling of stage fright that he knew at his age he should have left behind. The untold anxiety that not even the best he could give her might be good enough seemed far too real to ignore. Keeping this anxiety hidden was part of passing the exam. Gently, as though he thought she might break, he put her on the bed, and leaned over her.

Irene's voice trailed off as she found herself looking up at him. Snape could still see the traces of laughter on her face, but her eyes opened wide, and although there was anticipation in her gaze, he noticed something else too. He was struck by the realization that she might be - just a tiny little bit perhaps – scared.

It was not the glance of the healer who knew his body more than he knew hers, but a look of vulnerability, reminiscent of a lost kitten wanting to be found, wanting all the caressing and cuddling he could give. His job was to make this kitten purr.

His anxiety evaporated, giving way to the acute desire to envelop her in love. Protecting her and loving her did not seem to be mutually exclusive any more. The illusion that he was strong and brave and powerful became a certainty, reflected in her eyes. She needed _his _strength, _his _guidance, _his_ experience and, most of all, _his_ love. No woman had given him such a firm sense of confidence before.

His eyes fixed on that inspiring gaze, he reached out and undid the belt of her dressing gown…

* * *

><p>There is a moment in potion-making when the boiling, sizzling mixture of liquid and non-liquid ingredients becomes a homogeneous, new quality, the evolving potion itself. It is a pivotal point - an example of everyday perfection. If the ingredients in the boiling cauldron could feel and think, at this moment they would realize they had ever only been ingredients and their seemingly independent existence had only been preparation for becoming part of the Whole. If the ingredients in the boiling cauldron could feel and think, this moment of realization would be a moment of pain, but also of overwhelming joy and happiness.<p>

* * *

><p>Snape had experienced the mystery of wholeness and perfection. Every inch of his body had been alert approaching her, and every inch of his body had felt her accepting, responsive presence, in which he was about to immerse himself. Two people forming a complete universe together, set on a journey to the Infinite. The moment reached into eternity. Their voices touched the sky.<p>

Now he was lying by her side, feeling wonderfully relaxed. Emptied and ready to be filled with new contents. A light hand was caressing him. He kissed that hand, then he propped himself up on one arm and put the other one across her body. He studied her face, trying to read the emotions it reflected. He knew he was about to risk spoiling the enchantment, but the question did not leave his mind at peace.

"Didn't I hurt you?"

Irene chuckled.

"I love you, Severus."

"I love you, too. Just tell me –"

"There's nothing more to tell."

That night he fell asleep with the taste of freedom in his mouth, her love enveloping him like a blanket.

Early in the morning, Irene was standing in front of her mirror in her dressing gown, combing her hair. Snape had just woken up and was now watching, unnoticed by her, savouring a simple but to him new pleasure. The Pensieve was still on her dressing table, reminding him of Dumbledore's fatherly love. Even if the phrase was an exaggeration, Dumbledore had made a last, disinterested effort to do something for him. And Hogwarts wanted him back …

Irene took her hair into one hand and twisted it into a complicated shape on the top of her head. It was an interesting hairstyle, highlighting her slim neck, and Snape approved of the experiment. Then she let her hair fall onto her back again and continued combing it. Snape felt more and more awake, his gaze growing more intent.

The first suspicious sign that Irene noticed was her dressing gown sliding off her shoulders on both sides. She adjusted it, but the same thing happened immediately again. She wheeled round.

"What a nice way to attract a girl's attention," she said in playful reprimand, her eyes laughing.

"Even a cat may look at a queen."

She adjusted the shoulders of her dressing gown again and stepped closer to him.

"I'm beginning to understand what Titania means with her Control Solution mania."

"Are you implying that my magic is out of control?"

"Your magic is in the right place, I know" she said in a softened voice. "Merry Christmas, Severus."

"Merry Christmas, Irene."

She could read the invitation in his eyes.

"It's time we opened our Christmas presents," she suggested, but with little conviction.

"I have already received mine," he said silkily. "Unwrapped it, too."

Once more her shoulders got free of the dressing gown, and they were promptly covered with kisses.

"Suppose I unwrapped it again…"

In answer, she gave an excited little sigh.

* * *

><p>"I'm starving," Irene announced when they finally sat down to a very late (and very appetizing) breakfast.<p>

Her vivacity was contagious, and Snape thought just to watch her have breakfast was a form of enjoyment. But her cheerfulness did not deceive him. He noticed how tactfully and yet how hard she tried to please him, to surround him with everything good, to make him forget about the reality awaiting him as soon as Christmas was over, to give him as many happy memories to live on as she could, to the point of making him feel pampered.

In spite of her efforts, the knowledge that they had only two days lingered in the back of his mind, and he found he was more worried about how _she_ would be affected by their separation than about his own troubles. _He_ could endure pain and loss – he was well-practised. Irene, however, had to be shielded from all dangers resulting from loving him, from all the dangers of solitude and from all evil threats the world in general might pose (of which he knew so much more than she did); yet, he would not be able to watch over her.

His expression grew troubled again, and Irene saw it. Immediately her smile was veiled by silent anxiety, and she reached for him. He took her hand between his.

"Should anything happen," he began, "you would tell me without delay, wouldn't you?"

She cast a searching look at him.

"I suppose I would … why?"

"I would want to know. I would want to be involved."

Her eyes glinted.

"To stand by me through and through? Don't worry, nothing will happen."

"I just want to make this very clear. You are not alone whatever comes. I may be a prisoner, but that won't stop me from doing what I can for you."

"If you love me -"

"I can do more than that. I can work for you … should the need arise. As a teenager, I was an inventor of spells. It's a gift that has not been exhausted yet, and properly patented inventions could bring money. I have a small house which could be sold if -"

"You are talking as though I was already pregnant," she interrupted.

"I want to let you know that I have resources. You can trust me. I want my share of everything, pleasure and duty alike."

This new self-confidence with which he was ready to face the future was part of the radical change that had taken place in his life in the past twenty-four hours. He felt as though he had just woken from a century-long dream and found a completely different world around him. But it was not simply the world that had changed - _he_ had changed as well. How had it happened? Was it the consequence of Minerva's letter – the newspapers, the painting, the notebook or the Pensieve and Dumbledore's will? Or was it entirely and exclusively because of Irene, who had proved her love for him beyond doubt?

He was reminded of the Muggle fairy tales he had read in the Muggle primary school of his pre-Hogwarts life. (He used to be quite fond of the stories that preserved the Muggles' knowledge of magic from the time when wizards and witches had practised their art without secrecy – no wonder, since magic was a barely tolerated topic at home, and he was eager to find out more about it from any source.) Some of these tales told the story of a girl who agreed to marry a frog or some sort of monster, only to find, right after the night of the wedding, that the disgusting beast had turned into a prince. Of course, the prince had been transfigured by some evil spell that could only be lifted by a girl who accepted the prince despite the degrading circumstances. It had seemed a very unlikely tale in those days.

Yet, the change he had undergone overnight was of similar proportions. He might have been a monster a mere day before, but now, even if not exactly a prince (although judging from the way Irene treated him, he could have been one), he was definitely a man again – a man who had goals; a man determined to emerge from the abyss victorious; a man who was able to win a woman's love and esteem; a man who was able to give.

* * *

><p>Irene was as excited as a child when they stood before the pile of decorated boxes under the Christmas tree.<p>

"You must have a lot of friends," he said, thinking of how little he knew of Irene's life outside the camp.

"Only a few," she replied. "Some of these boxes are from _your_ friends."

She picked up a box and gave it to him. Snape turned it around incredulously in his hands for a while, but Irene was right. It was indeed a present for him. The sender was Madam Pomfrey, and the box contained an exclusive collection of teas – ordinary and herbal ones. The latter could be especially useful when one caught a cold, the flu or other seasonal illnesses associated with cold weather. A Christmas card was enclosed with some very kind wishes for him.

While Snape was studying the contents of Madam Pomfrey's present, Irene opened a box sent by her parents. It contained all sorts of practical items, including fruits and, in a special magical container, a huge Christmas pudding.

There were two other presents for Snape under the tree. One of them turned out to be a tastefully decorated Christmas card with just one line written on the outside: _For Professor Snape, as a mark of our esteem and regard, from Dumbledore's Army._

He felt a familiar nervousness somewhere in his stomach at the sight of the signature. For a whole year, seeing those two words anywhere had meant trouble. But he opened the card nevertheless, and immediately the room was filled with tantalizingly beautiful Christmas choral music. The card was a musical greeting card of the best magical quality currently available; and it contained a hundred different titles, including twelve complete operas by the most famous enchanters of music, such as the eighteenth century wizard Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. It must have been expensive, and he wondered if it was right to accept it. But Irene's eyes were bright with tears, and it seemed to settle the question.

The last package was from Harry Potter, who was apparently familiar with the circumstances in the camp, because he had sent a practical present: an electric torch with a set of batteries. The torch was accompanied by a short note instead of a card.

_Professor Snape,_

_I have some new information that would be important for you to know. If you have no objections, I will visit you in January. _

_Best regards,_

_Harry Potter_

_P.S._

_I reckon the batteries should work where you are._

The letter was only moderately friendly, and Potter's writing skills had not improved a bit since his Potions essays.

"He says he's coming here in January," he explained to Irene.

"Oh, but that's good!" Irene cried putting down the book her best friend had sent her. "You will be able to discuss your plans with him! What's this?"

She studied the torch with interest.

Snape was gazing at the Christmas tree, trying to digest the experience such a shower of unexpected Christmas gifts meant to him. Minerva was all right – in the Hospital Wing, they had managed to get over the period of time when she had thought they were deadly foes, and they understood each other now. Madam Pomfrey's present was a sign of thoughtful kindness. As a free man, he could return it with a bunch of flowers; besides, he could almost regard her as an old ally.

Dumbledore's Army, however, the many-headed prank-monster that had considered him the greatest enemy of Hogwarts (and had probably hated him more than they had hated the Dark Lord, whom most of them had never seen face-to-face) was different. He could not accept an expensive present from them with a light heart, no matter what they had written on the card. As for Potter … he still did not know how he felt about Potter.

"You are not exactly forgotten yet," Irene said. After a pause, she added, "You look shocked."

"I'm trying to decipher what it all means," he replied.

"Isn't it obvious?"

He shook his head.

"Not to me. There is a difference between friendship and remorse, between respect and pity, between helping one and trying to make one feel better. Since the day of the battle I've been alternately an object of charity and a slave anyone can order about. I'm fed up with being in need of help and comfort. No one can live my life but myself. No one can stand up for me unless I stand up for myself. The rest is … illusion. Dumbledore's Army may not know that though. I'm sure Madam Pomfrey does."

"Be your own champion then," Irene said gently, "and accept _them_ as supporters cheering for you."

He gave her a wry smile.

"This world becomes a much nicer place when you explain it to me."

"To make this world an even nicer place for you, I'll tell you there is one more box you have to open."

Snape needed neither name nor any other words to recognize the wrapping of the last box as Irene's handiwork.

"Don't you want to open it?" she whispered.

She was watching him as eagerly as though _she_ was about to receive something.

"I guess I'm slowing things down," he answered. "This Christmas with you is the greatest gift I've ever got."

"Presents are part of the holiday," she said. "I want to make it a real Christmas in every respect."

"It _is_ real," he replied, opening the box.

It contained a silver candlestick in the shape of a large, long-necked bird with outstretched wings - a phoenix, the bird that could start a new life from the ashes of the old one, shooting off towards the sun. To him, the phoenix was Dumbledore's pet, a fundamentally Gryffindor bird with its red and gold feathers. The silvery brilliance of this one, however, reminded him most of all of Dumbledore's _Patronus_. The candlestick was accompanied by a set of long, slim candles.

"These are magical," he said.

"They may be passed off as decoration," she replied.

Snape wondered how he would return to the camp loaded with brand new magical items all for purposes of 'decoration'.

"When you light one of these candles, it will help you find hopeful, wise or clear thoughts in your mind, as you need them at the moment," she explained.

Snape placed the candlestick on the coffee table and put a candle in it. Irene lit the candle with the tip of her wand.

"The only problem is that you need wand-magic to light them. Muggle matches won't do."

"I'll take care of that," he said confidently. "No problem."

She cast him an inquisitive glance.

"Don't tell me you are hiding a wand somewhere."

"One must find ways to survive," he replied evasively.

She was perhaps expecting a more detailed explanation, but Snape was already staring into the flickering light of the candle.

"Do you like it?"

"You have made the perfect choice. I do a lot of thinking these days. Thank you."

He was still watching the burning candle.

"If we want to make this Christmas real," he said slowly, "it is my turn now to give you something."

She responded with a tentative expression, as though she was not sure she had interpreted his words correctly.

"I couldn't have received a better gift this Christmas than your decision to fight for justice," she said.

"All right," he replied, "but it ought to be supplemented with something tangible. It is … not a usual Christmas present though. You may regard it as symbolic … if you wish so."

Irene watched the play of the candlelight on his face and wondered what made it so difficult for him to present an ever so symbolic gift. It was more in her power to give than in his; therefore he need not have felt obliged, in the current situation, to reciprocate her present with something similarly valuable. A symbolic gift from him could be a token of his love – like the flowers he had given her the day before – and what more did she need?

"If you think it inappropriate -"

"You know you don't have to apologise to me," she interrupted hastily. "No one is more familiar with the circumstances than I am; and I can only love anything that comes from you."

Severus nodded, as though it was the cue he had been waiting for, and Irene saw him produce a small jewellery box.

"Open it," he said.

He watched as she took the box into her palm and lifted the lid. She gaped at the ring with her lips parted. When she looked up at him again, it seemed she could not decide whether to cry or laugh.

"Don't you like it?" he asked when she was still silent with astonishment, maybe shock.

"I'm surprised," she replied very quietly. "You were talking of a _symbolic_ present…"

"It _is_ a symbol … if you take it as one."

Convinced that he had made himself sufficiently clear, Snape was waiting for her to say something, but she kept looking at him in a strange, expectant way. He braced himself for whatever was going to come.

"If you don't know what to answer," he said, "you don't need to feel bad about it. You might still accept this ring as a present, as a token of my gratitude if you like."

He broke off. It was only getting worse.

"Severus," she said, and her voice was clear again, "you haven't asked me anything yet."

"Haven't I?" he murmured partly to himself, partly to her.

He glanced at the candlelight perhaps for support, and suddenly he knew what to do and say as he had never known before. He stood in front of her and took the ring out of the box.

"A mere look can be a question," he said, "or a touch, or a kiss. But since you need words, I'm asking you now: Will you accept this ring in acknowledgement of my intention to make you the ultimate goal of my efforts as I try to win my life back and as a token of my promise that I won't give up until I succeed?"

"With all my heart," she answered, giving her hand to him so he could put the ring on her finger. "I accept this ring and your word of promise. In return, you have my word –"

"No," he cut in. "Don't make any promises. At least - not yet. You must be free to call it off any time. I can't tell how long it will take what I'm going to start now and what it will cost me. Your life is still yours."

At first it seemed she would protest; but then she smiled again.

"It will be as you wish."

To this, the only possible response was a kiss. Afterwards he finally had time to observe the ring on her finger. It suited her perfectly, and it was _his_ ring, given and accepted.

"It is as beautiful as a dream," she said. "But I can't even imagine how you managed to obtain it."

"I needed help, of course," he replied. "I couldn't go to the shops personally. That's why I was late yesterday. I had to go and pick it up."

"In the snowstorm?"

"Yes. My lantern broke and I lost my way."

"Was that the reason why you almost got locked in the mist?" she asked, her eyes wide with horror.

He nodded. His pride was flattered by her shock and amazement - he could not help it.

"Risking your safety for a piece of jewellery? You mustn't do that ever again! Thank your lucky stars you have come back unharmed."

"It wasn't for a piece of jewellery. It was for your Christmas present."

"But you told me it had been a fool's errand," she said suddenly. "Why?"

A faint flush appeared on his face. His glory was fading.

"I didn't think I would have the courage to actually give it to you," he muttered reluctantly.


	29. Doctor Dulcamara's Delight

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 29**

_Doctor Dulcamara's Delight_

Irene was dancing with Tanner. She had agreed to dance with him out of general politeness, as it was the all-staff New Year's Eve Party (only the guards who were on duty were missing), but she did not enjoy the dance. Nevertheless, dancing was a good way to keep an eye on the guard at a time when he could easily have wandered off and found Severus alone. She would rather dance with him all night than allow that. But she was not _really_ going to dance with Tanner all night. The event was not about dancing in the first place. There were too few women, only Irene, Mrs Primrose, two secretaries and some visiting girlfriends or family members - officials were not very eager to bring their wives and daughters to such a place, even for a short visit.

More importantly, she had promised Severus to slip out of the party and meet him at midnight, and she would not miss that for the world. She did not notice, but she smiled as she thought of him and the days they had spent together. Despite the difficult beginning, the Christmas holiday with Severus had turned out to be the best Christmas she had ever had, although she had many beautiful Christmas memories.

Tanner saw her smile and took it as encouragement, but Irene hardly heard what the guard was saying. At the end of the dance, she sent him to bring her some refreshment. (She did not drink alcohol – she was still the only healer in the camp, officially on duty twenty-four hours a day.) As soon as Tanner left, Mr Grey appeared.

"Healer Burbage, may I have a word with you?"

Irene followed him to the other end of the room.

"Are you enjoying the party?" the High Warlock asked her, handing her a glass of pumpkin juice. "I suppose there will be some more dancing after midnight - until the morning even, if there are dancers still."

"It is a well-organized party," Irene said vaguely. "I would never have thought such events were possible in these circumstances."

"People are people everywhere," Mr Grey replied, "but you are right - there are things that our circumstances forbid. A New Year's Eve party with workmates is perfectly possible, as you can see. Other things, however - like friendship between personnel and convicts, for example - are highly undesirable."

Irene's expression froze. She had not expected that - not tonight at least.

"When I say _friendship_ is highly undesirable," Mr Grey continued, "I mean just that: _friendship_. As for a relationship even closer than that, though I'd rather not give credit to gossip, I must say this: I expect you all to make it absolutely clear to everyone that you cannot be accused of inappropriate partiality for any of the inmates. Should the conduct of a colleague of ours betray such partiality, I would be obliged to find someone else for the job of that colleague. Take that as a friendly reminder, Healer Burbage. I regret to say this – there will be no exceptions. I hope you have understood me."

Having finished his speech, Mr Grey offered to bring Irene a sandwich, but she declined it.

"I need some fresh air," she said coldly. "It's awfully hot in here."

Mr Grey nodded, letting Irene go away. On her way, she caught sight of Tanner drinking a large goblet of Firewhisky, and she disgustedly turned in the opposite direction. Finally she was standing by a window that had been opened slightly, gazing at the snowfall outside and pondering the ultimatum she had been given. She was expected to either break ties with Severus or give up her job. Both would mean losing the opportunity to help him.

Severus might have a thousand distant and influential supporters, but she alone was close, truly close to him, she alone could give him daily support, encouragement and more. Pretending to break up would be, in effect, hardly different from breaking up in reality: The convicts were being watched all the time and a secret relationship could not be secret for long. Giving in to the pressure, however, would destroy this new sense of togetherness between them, this fragile, precarious happiness that was clinging to life like a flower growing from the side of a rock. What good would it be for her to stay in the camp if she lost his trust, if he had to cope with everything on his own all the same?

Yet, if she failed to comply with the rules, she would be sacked, and at best she could do like Mrs Malfoy, who had taken a house in the village and lived there so she could visit her family as often as possible. Their chances to see each other would depend on the camp authorities. She might be useful in some ways, but she would have no official power to influence what was happening in the camp. At the very least, Titania would try to make Severus drink Control Solution, which he would refuse, and it would be very hard to predict where such a conflict might lead. Tanner meant an even worse menace than Titania. The two of them could make for a deadly combination of risks.

Luckily, her job was secure at least until Titania returned from her holiday, which would be in the middle of January only. Mr Weasley was coming back in a few days though, and she could probably count on him as an ally. As for Severus, it was not yet necessary to tell him about the dilemma. It would upset him, and she wanted to avoid that.

* * *

><p>Snape was alone in the laboratory. Irene, and even Mrs Primrose, had gone to the all-staff New Year's party, and no one was ill enough to spend that night in hospital. In their own ways, the convicts were celebrating, too. For his part, Snape was brewing potions - he preferred it to watching the walls of his hut passively, even if one of those walls was now decorated with the picture of Hogwarts. The hut was a cold place – it had always been, but he had found it much colder since he had sat hand in hand with Irene by her warm fireplace, where the cold and the dark could not reach them.<p>

Irene had given him the keys of the hospital, which might not be entirely in accordance with the rules, but he never went there without an official reason. This time a complicated potion that had been maturing half-prepared for several days had to be continued. It could have waited until the morning, but no one in the camp besides him would have been able to tell that.

Brewing helped him pass the hours until midnight, when he would see Irene at last. She had promised to call on him in his hut (the idea that Snape might spend the night in the laboratory had not yet occurred to them then) and he was impatient. He had only resentfully accepted that Irene had to celebrate with her colleagues, because he had secretly hoped for a chance to repeat some of the best parts of the Christmas holiday, and now he felt robbed.

After spending two days in that never-before-experienced euphoria of love, surrounded by kindness and devotion, it was difficult to put up with reality, in which he saw Irene only in the controlled circumstances the hospital provided, and in which he was continuously watched. He was anxious to keep up appearances; therefore he avoided treating her openly as a lover in front of the camp personnel or the convicts. In an environment where privacy was only a dream, their daily meetings could not satisfy his permanent yearning for her.

His caution notwithstanding, it was already an open secret in the camp that they had spent the Christmas holiday together. The Malfoys at least had put two and two together. That had been made clear by Draco's words when, on his way to the laboratory that night, he had run into the boy in the barely lit area where the huts were situated. Or rather, the boy had run into him – Draco had been literally running.

"Ah … it's you," said Draco irritably. "Prowling the place at night like in the old times?"

"Just like you, Draco," he replied in a tone of warning.

"Let me go then," Draco said although Snape had not tried to stop him. "I have a date."

But instead of going on, he stared at Snape so hard that his cold, strangely blank eyes were clearly visible despite the darkness.

"Not a serious affair, of course," said a voice behind Draco.

Draco threw an exasperated glance at his father, who had apparently been following him.

"Village girl," Lucius added.

Snape knew Lucius meant 'Muggle' but would sooner have died than avow it. It must have been difficult to arrange the date (Muggles were not usually admitted to the fenced area), but it only proved the never-fading ingenuity of the Malfoys, who still had everything that, in their current situation, money could buy.

"What business of yours is that?" Draco flung at his father; then he turned back to Snape. "Not everyone can get a _healer_, you know."

"_Watch your language_, _Draco_," Snape snapped, but the boy did not heed him – he was already off towards the bog.

Snape had a sudden impulse to run after him and bring him back, but he resisted it. Draco was only an ill-bred, arrogant and very distressed teenager with a dark past and a disappointing present. This provocative insolence was a sign of inner tension and immaturity. Snape thought he could vividly imagine what might be going on in the boy's mind; yet, just because they both had been, in their youth, seduced by and sorely disappointed in the allure of dark power, he had no right to interfere in his former student's new life. But Lucius had long gone back to his hut when Snape was still standing on the spot gazing after the boy and trying to assuage the ominous feeling rising in him.

He watched the contents of the cauldron turn turquoise; then he opened a bottle of nettle wine and poured a few drops into the liquid. He had enough problems to tackle even without Draco. Right now, for instance, he had to finish the potion before he could leave to see Irene. He had not thought of it in those terms before, but, as a matter of fact, he had a date, too, and he wanted to be on time.

With regard to his new plans, he had not accomplished much. At Christmas, he had written a reply to Minerva, and he had sent an official letter to the Ministry, too. He knew nothing was likely to happen during the holiday season, and even in January, the Ministry wizards and witches would be too busy starting the year to do anything else, but he preferred to send those letters from Irene's house rather than from the camp. Still, had it not been for Irene's repeated warning, he might have postponed writing to Potter. Eventually that letter had been sent, too, and Potter was informed that Snape was ready to see him. Irene's tropical screech owl – a rather exotic creature in this winter landscape, which had to be protected by special warming charms, - was busy, but did not seem to mind it.

He had not touched the Pensieve yet. Who could blame him for not thinking of viewing his old memories while he was so agreeably occupied in acquiring new ones? Irene certainly understood him. After Christmas, however, he left the stone basin in Irene's house with a secret sense of relief: He did not feel ready to use it and he kept hoping he would not need it.

The cauldron fizzed, and he began stirring it rapidly. He had almost missed the next phase of the job. He shuddered at the thought that several days of work could have been spoiled, not to mention his reputation as a reliable potions expert. He had better not let his mind wander while brewing.

His attention was divided anyway. Besides the hospital potions, he was working on a new elixir as well; therefore he was experimenting with combinations of various ingredients. It was an intriguing task – the idea had occurred to him more than a year before, but he had not had the time to put it into practice yet; and he would have given it up if Minerva had not sent him his old notes.

Midnight was not far now; and the potion was finished at last. He left it in the cauldron and got ready to leave. But as soon as he opened the door, he was brutally shoved back to the laboratory by an invisible hand. Then the door was closed, and the Disillusionment Charm was removed by a Tanner smelling of Firewhisky and sporting a drunken sneer. The guard's wand was pointed at Snape.

"_PETRIFICUS TOTALUS_!"

"_PROTEGO_!"

The Shield Charm nearly threw Tanner off balance, and the guard gaped at the smouldering piece of wood between Snape's fingers with shock. The current substitute wand was so hot that it seared Snape's palm, but he did not even flinch as he kept the stick firmly pointed ahead. He could have done much better with a real wand – but it was not bad for the makeshift alternative that he was using, and which, he was sure, would not last long. He must take advantage of the surprise factor as quickly as he could.

"That was the last time," he said, glaring at Tanner in a manner that made the guard take a step backwards, "that you had tried to attack me. Don't you ever … Do you understand? Don't you _ever_ dare to do that to me again! Do I make myself clear?"

"YOU CARRY A WAND!" Tanner bellowed. "I was right! Your kind should be kept behind locked doors!"

"It is not for you to decide where my kind should be kept," Snape replied, pretending to be dangerously calm, although fury was raging inside him. "For your information: I am not breaking any rules. I do not carry a wand. It is only that any stick can become a wand in _my_ hand; while _your_ wand is merely good for torturing helpless victims!"

The guard was livid. It was easy to predict what he was about to do, even without Legilimency.

"_CRUCIO_!"

"_EXPELLIARMUS_!"

Tanner's wand fell on the floor (significantly closer, unfortunately, to its owner than Snape would have liked). Simultaneously, Snape felt the stick crack in his hand. It could have been worse, however, and, for the moment, he was at least able to cover the crack with his fingers.

"I'll have your hands cuffed behind your back for this!" the guard snarled, purple with rage, although he did not dare to move.

Snape allowed himself a disdainful smile.

"You can do that as soon as you find someone else to make all the potions needed here. But you will have to have my tongue tied as well, or I'll tell everyone what you have just done!"

"A convict's word against a guard's," Tanner replied derisively.

"No," Snape retorted. "It's your wand. You have just cast an Unforgiveable Curse. Your wand will reveal it upon inspection. A very simple spell can do the trick, didn't you know? You'll find yourself in Azkaban in no time. Or, if you are lucky, you may end up in this camp with us. You could learn about the other side of the coin."

Tanner dived for his wand, and Snape hesitated just a second too long (he had good reason to do that with a cracked substitute wand as his only weapon); then once again the guard was armed and ready to attack.

"If you want to have your tongue tied, I'll see to that, too!" Tanner shouted. "You can't do more than a Shield Charm or a Disarming Charm, can you? You won't go far with them… You'll soon be begging me to wipe your memory!"

"Harry Potter," Snape said quietly, never taking his eyes off his enemy's face, "vanquished the Dark Lord with a Disarming Charm."

He did not notice that he was quoting the hated prophecy, that he was citing something _Potter _had done; it had come instinctively, on the spur of the moment. The substitute wand might or might not do one last spell before he was left completely weaponless; yet, he had to defend himself.

"Do you compare yourself to Harry Potter?" Tanner taunted him. "The Chosen One, the hero of the Wizarding World? Slimeballs like you should not be allowed to foul his name -"

"_Harry Potter_," Snape repeated the name with emphasis, "learned the Disarming Charm from _me_."

Tanner shouted another curse, but Snape's nonverbal spell was quicker. Truly frightened this time, the guard backed away from the fire-snake that Snape had cast until he lost his balance and tumbled over. He dropped his wand, which rolled out of the reach of both wizards. The fire-snake dissolved in a cloud of smoke, and Snape was standing over Tanner with the broken and burnt pieces of wood in his hand. Tanner gaped at him - then gave a hollow laughter.

"Don't tempt me to try wandless magic," Snape warned him. "I have become very good … I mean _very good_ at it recently."

He saw with satisfaction that the laughter froze on Tanner's face. It was obvious that Tanner did not doubt the existence of wandless magic any more.

"Let's talk," the guard suggested warily, standing up. "Both of us have secrets. I won't talk about your little tricks with magic, and you won't mention the Unforgivable Curse to anyone. How is that?"

Snape pretended to ponder the deal for a while, although he knew he had little choice but to accept it.

"And you give me your word you won't try to attack me again," he said.

He did not trust the guard's promise for a moment, but forcing an extra clause into the agreement was a sign of strength. Tanner knew that, too.

"Perhaps I won't attack you again," the guard replied, "but you can't blackmail me. You can't tell anyone how I have attacked you unless you can explain how you have defended yourself when you are supposed to be on Control Solution … unless you are willing to subject a certain _other person_ to interrogation."

Snape glowered at him silently.

"I would have enjoyed hearing you wail," Tanner added, "but that's not the main reason why I have come here. You must do me a favour."

"A _favour_?" Snape repeated the word with heavy sarcasm. "Is that your idea of asking a _favour_? Using blackmail and the Cruciatus Curse?"

"Others don't need to know about it," the guard said with a hiccup, stealthily glancing in the direction of his wand. "Not a big deal for you … Don't refuse it."

"Spit it out," Snape growled. "I will see whether I refuse it or not."

"I want a potion."

Snape's eyes narrowed. He suspected a trap.

"I'm no poisoner!" he snapped.

The guard laughed.

"No… You prefer the Killing Curse, don't you? But it's not poison that I want. It's love potion."

That was unexpected, but after the first moment of astonishment, Snape's mind was racing. He thought of Irene, and he had to struggle to keep his rage in control and to keep his magic from uncontrollably lashing out at the guard.

"Well?" asked the guard impatiently.

"I'm surprised," Snape answered. "Poison would suit you better."

"Another time maybe," Tanner, sneered. "This time I want love potion. Now. "

Snape knew Tanner would not approach him with such a request (or order) if he were not drunk. Love potions could be obtained from Knockturn Alley or from a joke shop. But Snape did not doubt that the idea of using love potion was permanently on the guard's mind – and if the guard had such intentions, Snape would have to watch him.

"I don't remember saying I would oblige," he said, taking care not to sound final.

"You have no choice if you want to protect _a certain person_."

"There's always a choice."

"All right. I'll see how _she_ responds to blackmail. Falsifying medical records is a criminal offence."

Tanner paused for effect.

"If I get the potion, I'll leave her alone."

That was an obvious lie. Snape scowled.

"Don't worry, there are many better women to find if a man can walk free," Tanner continued, sneering again. "Making the potion would be nothing for you. You're a famous Potions Master –"

"Wait a minute," Snape cut him short. "I could make the potion, of course -"

"_Could_?"

"But you must know a few things first."

"And what are they? I'm in a hurry."

Of course, he was. Anyone wanting a love potion must be in an insane hurry.

"Love potion doesn't replace the real thing," Snape said.

"What do you mean? Does it work or not?"

"It depends on ... what you hope to gain. The effect of the potion wears off after a while."

During his career as Head of Slytherin House, Snape had had quite a few conversations with his students on the same subject, and he had always made it as short as possible. Now it was considerably more awkward to enlighten a grown-up man than any number of kids.

"Don't act the fool to me," Tanner snorted. "You know very well what I hope to gain. It's worth it if the effect lasts an hour at least. And she can drink it again if I want her to, before the effect is over ... a woman in love will do anything -"

"She would _NOT_ be in love!" Snape snapped. "That's the point! She just ... wouldn't be herself. Besides, it's illegal."

_What would happen if he simply took the heaviest cauldron and knocked the guard on the head with it? - With that big, thick head, he probably would not be hurt very much, and it would not save Irene from his revenge._ The only way was to give him _some sort of_ drink ... But this idea was so simple that it might even penetrate that thick, drunken head of Tanner's.

"Illegal," Tanner spat. "As if your kind bothered... don't make me laugh."

Snape began preparing tools and ingredients, feeling the guard's gaze on him. He pretended to be very busy. In fact, he _was_ very busy - thinking. Tanner got tired of watching him at last. He picked up his wand; then he sat down and yawned. Snape was sure that in the morning the guard would either forget or wish he could forget this conversation between them. But Snape did not have time to wait until then. He would get rid of the man sooner if he pretended to agree.

"Here you are," he said after a reasonably long time (and mere minutes before midnight), handing the guard a small bottle in which he had put nettle wine spiked with a few drops of Sleeping Draught and seasoned with a couple of harmless (but bitter) ingredients to make the concoction more difficult to recognize. "You must drink it alone, in a place where the light of the moon falls on the bottle when you open it. The potion will take effect in exactly seven hours, and its effect will last twenty-four hours. Just think of the target person - any woman - and she will be drawn to you no matter how far away she is from you. She will find you irresistible until the effect wears off."

Tanner blinked.

"I thought a love potion must be drunk by the … how did you say it? _Target person_."

"There are two main kinds of love potions," Snape explained. It would have been difficult to keep a straight face had he not thought of Irene and the danger Tanner's obsession could mean. "One is the kind that the target person must drink. The other one is drunk by the ... _other party_ ... in this case, by you."

"I'd prefer the first kind," Tanner said suspiciously.

"Then my work was in vain."

Snape took a piece of parchment and a quill, and began scribbling something.

"What's that you are writing?" Tanner demanded.

"The list of ingredients for the other kind," Snape answered. "The ones you must get from Diagon Alley."

Tanner jumped to his feet.

"Give me that drink," he snarled and snatched the bottle out of Snape's hand. He eyed its contents for a few moments. "Why can't _she_ take it anyway?"

"Because that is not how this potion works," Snape said sharply. "Not even you can be so thick."

"Hey, I'd be a lot more careful in your place," the guard grunted, waving his wand.

"Torture and curses," Snape replied smoothly, "won't give us any more ingredients. If you don't believe me, go and ask someone else."

The guard appeared to hesitate.

"What's the name of this potion?" he asked.

"Doctor Dulcamara's Delight," Snape answered immediately. "You can look it up in the Encyclopaedia of Potions."

The name did not ring a bell to Tanner.

"Does it taste good?" he queried.

Snape shrugged.

"Better than most other potions. But it's not the taste you want to drink it for."

"That must be what you drink, too," Tanner nodded knowledgeably.

Snape chose to remain mysteriously silent. Tanner raised his index finger in mindless glee.

"It's our little secret, isn't it? You keep my secret, I'll keep yours. Ha-ha."

The guard put on a thick, heavy cloak and left the laboratory with unsteady strides. When he was in the corridor, he turned back suddenly and closed the door of the laboratory with magic, leaving Snape locked in.

Snape hissed a curse, but that did not help now. He directed the broken pieces of the former tree branch at the door, muttering an _Alohomora_. Nothing happened. Though he was sure he could get out using wandless magic, it would probably mean blasting the door out of his way rather than opening it quietly. Still cursing the guard under his breath, he went to the window.

There was a soft snowfall outside. The night air was chilly. Snape put on his cloak (the guard's cloak had looked much warmer than the convicts' uniforms), and climbed onto the windowsill. With a proper wand in his hand, he could _fly_ now. Without one, however, he had better rely on the beech tree standing outside the window; and he would have to jump in order to catch the nearest branch. This non-magical alternative would definitely have been easier for a kid than for someone nearing forty, but Snape did not hesitate. Irene would already be looking for him, and he did not like the idea of her wandering alone by the convicts' huts at night, when he was not nearby.


	30. After Midnight

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 30**

_After Midnight_

Snow was falling off the beech tree as he found a steady position for himself. He peered into the winter night. His immediate surroundings were deserted and scarcely lit, but stretching his neck a bit, he could see the lights of the luxuriously illuminated tall building where the free employees of the camp were celebrating the New Year.

Where was Irene? Had she managed to leave the party?

It was about midnight, and suddenly Snape saw a distant flash of light. _Fireworks_, he thought at first. But then his eyes narrowed. That light was rather strong…. even _abnormally_ strong. Could it be what it seemed to him?

He slid off the tree, not even noticing the scratches that the branches left on his gloveless hands and on his clothes. A few minutes before, he had been sure that Irene had left the party and was looking for him somewhere in the camp. Now he was equally certain that she was still there (or perhaps had returned) where the ominous light brightened the horizon. He ran as fast as he could, until he stumbled in the dark on some large obstacle blocking his way and nearly fell over. It was a human body lying motionless on the snow.

Potter's Christmas present came in handy as he took a quick look at what might have been a dead body, and for a moment he froze as though the other person's condition was contagious. Tanner was staring at him with eyes wide open in the torchlight. Snape could think of one possibility only: that the drink he had given Tanner was not as harmless as he had thought it to be. Tanner had drunk it, fallen asleep on the spot and had frozen to death.

That was all the more possible, because the guard was not wearing his thick winter cloak any more. Had Tanner felt so hot after drinking a bottleful of nettle wine that he had thrown his cloak away? Yet, when he bent closer to the guard, it became evident that Tanner was alive, although already quite cold. Tanner had apparently been Petrified. He was conscious therefore, but unable to move or speak.

Snape was impatient to go on, and he felt no pity for his enemy when Irene could be in danger; yet, he was unable to leave a helpless human being behind, exposed to certain death. He had to do something, no matter how he hated Tanner with all his heart. All his heart? Recently he had found there less space for hostile feelings than before ... or perhaps his ability to hate had decreased along with his Occlumency skills ... Or it was simply that Tanner, an enemy far inferior to him, could not induce the same sort of intense hatred that James Potter used to.

Since Snape could not find the guard's wand in his belt, and did not feel like searching for it more thoroughly, he grabbed Tanner and pulled him towards a nearby bench (the area around the hospital was the only place in the camp where benches could be found). Tanner was heavy, and his body left a wide track in the snow. With another effort, he lifted the guard on the bench, then, without thinking much of what he was doing, he took off his cloak and covered the man with it. Someone with a wand would do the rest.

It had not taken more than two minutes, and he shot off again. He had become hot with the exercise and the running, and he felt lighter and faster without his cloak; and anyway - he was heading towards a place where he would not miss it.

The full horror of the situation (which was worse, much worse, than he had imagined) hit home just as he heard the familiar sound of the alarm. Others heard it, too – convicts were gathering from every direction and stopped at a respectful distance from the spectacle but close enough to be able to watch (with vivid interest and sometimes with undisguised glee) the wizards flooding out of the burning building, where the flames were taking the shapes of gigantic serpents and dragons, attacking and chasing anyone happening to be in their way. The rapidly spreading fiendfyre was accompanied by strange noises and the shouts of people - spells as often as frightened cries. Snape fought his way through the spectators, but he was held up by a cordon of guards, who were pushing the convicts backwards, away from the fire and from the camp's DADA squad, busy trying to bring the fire under control.

"GET OUT OF THE WAY!" someone yelled at him.

But Snape was nearly mad with worry. He could not understand what the guards meant by minding the convicts at a moment when everyone with a wand should be taking part in the rescue. He had to find out where Irene was and what was happening to her. He had to save her if necessary. He tried to break through, but the guards did not tolerate disobedience. A wand was pushed against his neck.

Snape pondered nothing. He did not even _see _much beyond the opportunity presenting itself. He snatched the wand out of the guard's hand and pointed it at the fiendfyre, shouting a spell. A huge fire-dragon went out like the flame of a candle extinguished by the force of a breeze, much to the relief of Mr Grey's secretary, who had been running ahead of it. Snape sprinted towards the blaze, casting counter-curses, until a series of spells lashed him like a whip, until his arms were twisted behind his back, until the wand was taken away from him and he was shoved among the group of convicts.

The furiously yelling guards were driving the convicts towards the huts. If Snape had been able to think clearly, he would have realized how frightened they were, but his mind was seized by terror at the thought that he could not reach Irene when she might need his help… He was absolutely convinced that Irene was in danger and that she could only be rescued by him.

The convicts were practically running - Snape saw only heads and shoulders crammed together around him. He did his best to resist the coercion despite the punches and blows and kicks he had to suffer. He did not even know who he was fighting in the general commotion, but he soon found himself taken aside and wrestled to the ground. He felt the cooling touch of the snow on the nape of his neck, and his head hurt. He realized it was late, too late now. Irene had either escaped from the fire or not – it was too late for him to do anything. He was losing the will to resist.

"Professor Snape," said a voice while a strong hand was keeping him down. "Professor Snape… It is all right … _It is all right_…"

Snape peered into the semi-darkness. The lights of the fire did not reach this far, and he only saw the vague figure of the guard who had defeated him without magic and who was at the moment kneeling beside him on the snow.

"You must calm down or you'll be in trouble again," the voice said in a hoarse whisper, and Snape recognized Jones, his former student. "Why on Earth did you have to fight?"

Snape did not respond. Jones was still keeping him tight against the snowy ground, and he did not even have his cloak on. Where was Irene?

"We have experts," Jones continued. "They'll put out the fire without your help… You have only made yourself a suspect again."

"Irene … I mean Healer Burbage," Snape groaned. The headache got more severe with every word he uttered. "Where is she?"

"I saw her at the party," Jones replied after a pause. "I don't know where she is now."

The guard released Snape and wanted to help him stand up, but Snape did not accept the helping hand.

"I must find her."

"You can't look for her. Fiendfyres don't start by themselves. It is an attack on the camp. You had better not draw attention to yourself on a night like this. All the convicts are potential suspects, and they must stay where they are ordered to be. If I were you, I'd lie low tonight."

"Once I've made sure she is safe, you can take me wherever you want to."

"Don't start again," the guard warned him. "I'm under orders to take you to your house immediately and to keep you there. Healer Burbage has a wand … she is able to protect herself."

"This is dark magic," Snape said irritably. "How could she know what to do? Where would she have learned it? At the Hogwarts DADA classes?"

Jones hesitated for a moment; then he sighed.

"I'll check her out for you if you promise to stay put."

"She needs _me_," Snape replied stubbornly.

The guard's wand was drawn but his determination seemed to waver. He shook his head nevertheless.

"I can't let you go. With your record -"

Jones broke off in the middle of the sentence as he noticed something in the distance behind Snape. He stared; then he raised his wand tentatively.

"Lumos," he moaned in a changed voice.

Snape spun round.

The darkness was approaching rapidly like the huge black cloud of a storm. It reached them within an instant; there was no way to run away from it, and the guard's spell was of no avail. They could not see each other or anything at all. The darkness was complete, dense, impenetrable. Jones shouted '_Finite_', but in vain.

"It's no use," Snape said through the black curtain of magic around him. "You just have to wait until the darkness is over. Keep your ears open and your wand at the ready, and remember it is not the darkness that is dangerous, but those who are using it."

"Do you know what it is?" Jones asked, his voice trembling.

"Instant Darkness Powder," Snape replied. "It is a joke item to some, an instrument of mischief to others. I've seen it before, but never in such quantities."

"If … if it reaches the fire," Jones stammered, "we won't even know who or what is being burned."

The alarm was loud again, but the screams of people were even more deafening.

"No one will blame you if you lose me now," Snape hissed, "I'll go and find her."

He could not even hear the guard's answer in the noise; and he could just as well have closed his eyes, it would not have made any difference. He was in an open field with no walls and very few trees to grope for; the smell of smoke filled the air everywhere. He had no wand. He took a few steps - then he stopped. It was no good – he had only one thing left to rely on, one thing to be guided by. He did close his eyes this time and stood completely still, listening inward.

Soon he could feel it the way he had never felt it before. A stream of warm, strong magic became alive in him; its terrible and wonderful power made him blind to the darkness and deaf to the noise and at the same time it made him see and hear and feel in a new way. The sounds that left his lips might have been spells or a song or just a name; he only knew that they were the right sounds. He saw her. She was pale and motionless and alone; and he flew towards her as speedily and smoothly as thought.

The magical darkness was suddenly over, giving way to the usual darkness and the unusual lights of the night, and Snape's senses were abruptly assailed by a combination of aggressive stimuli. His concentration was broken, and he stared ahead as though he had been woken from a dream. His head was aching again, and so were his eyes, while in his chest he felt a painful constriction. He was also shivering with cold.

He recognized his surroundings only gradually. He was standing in front of his hut with a multitude of angry and frightened convicts around him. In the residential area currently enclosed by a circle of magical lights, panic reigned. He heard someone shouting Draco's name, but the voice got drowned in the cacophony of screams and cries. Not far from him, Hunter, the werewolf, was whimpering in the grip of fear.

Snape could not believe what he saw. Was that all he had achieved? Had he got where the guards had wanted him to go all the time? With all his resistance and all the power of his magic, had he only saved _himself_ after all?

Perhaps even his vision of Irene had been merely a trick of his imagination ... perhaps he had been wrong and she did not need him at all. Even if she did, he would not be there to help her; that was certain now. He felt exhausted, disappointed and burnt-out, and he realized he would not have the power to cross the magical boundary any more even if he knew where to look for her.

If he could not go to her, he would at least lock the door of the hut on himself and shut the world out. If he could not see her, he wanted to see no one.

He found the door open - ajar. He need not have been surprised. With such a mob in the neighbourhood, it would be rather remarkable if he found everything in order. But his heart was beating faster, although he did not dare to confess it to himself even.

He lit Potter's torch for the second time that night. But when he entered, he very nearly dropped it, as its light fell on some still whiteness crumpled on the floor just inside the hut, immediately by the door.

* * *

><p>He did not know how he had put the torch down, how he had lifted her in his arms and how he had carried her to the bed. But there she was now, alive but unconscious, and Snape had tried every non-magical way of waking her that he knew, all in vain. It meant she had not simply fainted but had been Stunned (apart from that, she seemed unharmed). He had tried to find her wand - he had searched the floor and her clothes, but Irene apparently did not have a wand on her. Nothing else remained therefore but to cover her with blankets and wait until the effect of the spell wore off.<p>

It was only then that he remembered to check the place for intruders and to properly lock the hut after making sure they were alone. Then he lit the fire in the fireplace. He brewed a potion for her (he had collected a tolerable stock of ingredients over the months) and he also made two cups of tea using Madam Pomfrey's herbal teas.

The Stunning Spell that had hit Irene must have been exceptionally strong, or perhaps she had been hit by several spells, as it took her a very long time to come to. Snape had had, for quite a while, nothing else to do but to alternately sit by her side and stand by the window or the door, listening to the noises coming from the camp. Even though he had locked the door, with that nervous mob just outside the hut, anything could happen. He had just stepped away from the bed, and then back again, when he saw Irene's eyes looking at him, _really_ looking at him at last.

He took her hand, and he could feel her squeezing his hand gently.

"I've made something for you," he said when he was able to speak.

He held a goblet of potion to her lips. It was strange to see her weak and ill and to be the one to look after her ... perhaps to cure her. There was some secret, inexplicable pleasure in it, buried deep under the expression of worry on his face.

"Happy new year," he muttered the words that he had wanted to say all night.

Some colour returned to her face.

"Happy new year, Severus," she whispered, sitting up. "What happened?"

Snape gave her a cup of herbal tea, then sat down by her side and told her the little he knew about the fire and how he had found her in the hut. She was drinking her tea slowly, as she, too, recounted what she was able to recall.

"I was coming here ... to you ... but you weren't here ... I'm sure I didn't force your door open," she said. "I was ... attacked ... I fell, and he took my wand and directed it at me before I could do anything."

"Who was it?" Snape was just asking when the non-magically locked door was thrown open with a loud bang.

Three guards rushed in, their wands pointed at Snape. One of them was Jones. Though they seemed startled at finding Irene with him, they proceeded with their job all the same.

"The Warlock wants to see you, hurry up."

Snape knew from experience what the summons could mean. He rose and took the teacup from Irene.

"It wouldn't be wise for you to stay here," he said to her. "It isn't safe."

"I'll go with you," she replied.

Reluctantly, Snape nodded his agreement. He would have refused the idea of Irene accompanying him to an interrogation, but anything was better than leaving her alone in the camp now.

"Healer Burbage is needed in the hospital," put in a guard. "Mrs Primrose is looking after the injured all by herself."

Irene jerked her head up.

"I'll be in the hospital soon. I must talk to Mr Grey first."

But after only a few steps, she almost fell. Snape watched her with renewed worry.

"I'm coming," Irene said with some effort, "only ... a little slowly."

"Go ahead," Jones said to the others, "I'll stay with Healer Burbage and help her."

The two other guards escorted Snape to Mr Grey's office. When he entered, the first thing he noticed was his own winter cloak spread on the desk in front of the Warlock.

"Do you know where we found this?" Mr Grey queried.

Snape stood opposite him, on the other side of the desk. The two guards stayed close behind him.

"On a bench near the hospital," Snape answered. "With Tanner."

"And do you know in what condition Mr Tanner was found?"

"Drunk," Snape replied. "Oh ... and probably cursed. As far as I can tell, at least."

Mr Grey's eyes flashed angrily.

"How did Mr Tanner get cursed?" he demanded.

Snape looked back at him without betraying any fear. So that was why he had been summoned. Of course …

"That," he said slowly, "is a question I cannot answer."

Mr Grey snorted.

"Tell me what you know."

"Tanner visited me in the hospital-"

"_Mr_ Tanner," the Warlock interrupted. "What were you doing there?"

"Making potions."

"On New Year's Eve?"

"I was in no mood for celebrating."

"Why did Tanner visit you?"

"To discuss a ... _personal_ matter."

"What personal matter?"

"_Mr_ Tanner," Snape replied, measuring every word and pronouncing them with great care, "wanted my assistance in a... _delicate_ business, but I was unable to help. Regrettably."

Mr Grey gave Snape a stony glare. Snape could tell he did not like what he had just heard.

"Shortly after Tanner left, I was on my way, too. I noticed the fire, and I was hurrying there when I accidentally found him on the snow."

"On the _snow_?"

"I took him to the bench. Since he seemed to have lost his cloak, I covered him with mine."

_I shouldn't have_, he added in thought.

"Did you alert anyone?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I didn't have a chance ... and later I forgot."

Mr Grey scrutinized Snape silently for a minute.

"You did have a chance to attack him, though," the Warlock said finally, "and it wouldn't have been for the first time."

"I don't deny that it would be a pleasure to curse him," Snape replied angrily. "But I don't have a wand - as you are well aware."

"That's it," Mr Grey snapped. "Tanner's wand has been taken. It's gone! For all we know, he may have been cursed with his own wand!"

"Why don't you ask _him_?"

"He didn't see the attacker. He was disarmed in the dark from behind, and when he turned around, he was cursed."

"But he couldn't have been disarmed without a wand," Snape said. "And I wouldn't have left my cloak nearby if I had done something wrong, would I?"

Even Mr Grey was obliged to acknowledge the logic of Snape's words. But he still had misgivings.

"What about your conduct afterwards? Rebellion, violence, attacks on my men, and you clearly had a hand in it! We know you took and used the wand of another of my guards!"

Snape could feel a vein pulsing rapidly in his temple.

"That only shows," he said with forced calm, "that I had not stolen Tanner's wand. If I had, I would not have needed another one."

"So you admit committing this offence at least!"

It was lucky that at the moment Snape did not see a wand he could lay his hands on; otherwise he might have been tempted to hex the highest ranking officer of the camp.

"People were in danger there and your wand-carrying men did nothing to save them!"

Convicts could not shout at the Warlock. The two guards acted at once, and Snape's wrists were immediately tied together with a rope. There was a loud knock on the door.

"Tell them I'm busy," Mr Grey barked.

But the door opened, and the head of Mr Grey's secretary appeared.

"Mr Grey, I know you are engaged, but - HEALER BURBAGE!"

Her words ended in an indignant shriek, as Irene slipped through the door with a very pale but determined face.

"Mr Grey, I must talk to you," she said.

"Not now," the Warlock grunted.

His tone was so harsh that it left Snape seething with outrage. Mr Grey had no right to be uncivil to _Irene_.

"This is an interrogation you are interrupting."

"I have information to share," Irene replied.

"From Tanner?"

"No," she said. "I haven't seen him yet."

"Well, as our only healer at the moment -," Mr Grey began tartly, but Irene cut him short.

"I was attacked as well."

Mr Grey gaped at Irene; then he cast a quick, piercing glance at Snape.

"The attacker snatched my wand from my hand in the darkness," Irene explained. "Then he used it on me. When I came to, I was in ... a hut nearby. He must have taken me there."

Mr Grey's gaze seemed to impale Snape. He evidently saw a connection between dragging a helpless victim to a bench and dragging another helpless victim into a hut.

"It's not Severus," Irene added quickly. "He only ... found me."

"You have an uncanny talent for locating unconscious personnel in this camp," the Warlock said in a dangerous voice.

Snape was silent. He was in deeper trouble now than before, but how could Irene have guessed what Mr Grey would think?

"No, you misunderstand me!" Irene cried. "I saw the attacker... I can identify him! He's been caught ... I've just met him outside your office!"

"What? Bring him in!" Mr Grey bellowed.

A guard ran to the door, and opened it. Two other guards entered, dragging between them a dirty, fatigued young wizard, blue with cold in his torn convict robes and with a hollow gaze.

Draco Malfoy.


	31. The CounterCurse

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 31**

_The Counter-Curse_

"He tried to run away," one of the guards explained, "and got caught in the mist."

As they let go of the boy, he collapsed. Irene crouched by his side, and took his pulse.

"He's ill," she said. "You won't be able to interrogate him for a while."

"Two guards will stay with him in the hospital," Mr Grey said after a moment of silence. "I want to see every single object he's got on him. What kind of wand have you got, Healer Burbage? He may have collected several ones."

"Olive," Irene answered, still observing Draco, whose fingertips were stained by some black, powdery substance.

"Five people will keep searching the area... and five will check on the other convicts. I want to talk to the boy's father at once!"

The two guards left with Draco, Irene following them wearily. Snape shot a cold look at the Warlock.

"May I leave?"

With an impatient wrist movement, Mr Grey waved his wand, and the rope fell off Snape's hands. Snape picked up his cloak and went to the door.

"You may still be needed later," Mr Grey called after him.

Snape glanced back.

"I won't run away," he said waspishly. "I promise."

Mr Grey snorted as the door closed behind him.

He soon caught up with Irene, who was hardly able to keep up with the guards supporting Draco. When they arrived at the hospital, Mrs Primrose apparently found it hard to decide whether it was Draco or Irene who needed more urgent treatment.

Irene, however, made it clear that she was there in her capacity as camp healer. She gave Draco a first-aid potion, which the boy took with an impassive, expressionless face. Though he was conscious, he did not look directly at anyone and he gave no indication that he was interested in or even aware of what was happening to him. Later, he endured the inevitable strip search in the same apathetic fashion. He answered no questions, and the guards found neither Irene's olive wand, nor Tanner's dogwood one on him. When Draco was in bed finally, Irene gave him a goblet of Sleeping Draught.

In the meantime, Snape was helping Mrs Primrose look after the injured. Convicts were not hurt, with the exception of Draco and – to Snape's surprise – Alecto Carrow. Snape wondered how she had got burned when convicts had not been invited to the party and had not even been allowed to go near the fire.

"That's not all," Mrs Primrose whispered to him. "On top of everything else, she lost her memory. Complete amnesia."

Snape raised his eyebrows.

"You mean a Memory Charm?" he asked sharply.

"I haven't thought of that possibility," Mrs Primrose admitted. "A severe shock is a perfectly believable explanation in this situation."

"A severe shock…" Snape mused. "There are few people in this camp who know more about fiendfyres than _she_ does."

"You mean she _did_," Mrs Primrose corrected. "She doesn't know her own name any more. Whatever crimes she committed in the past, she has paid for them amply now."

"And yet," Snape murmured, "I would not be surprised if she had been involved in the fire incident in some other way, too."

"We may never learn it," Mrs Primrose predicted gloomily.

Snape cast a penetrating glance at the injured witch.

"If I were you," he said to the nurse, "I would try a 'Finite Incantatem' on her."

Mrs Primrose regarded him with a pitying expression.

"That spell has no effect on amnesia," she replied. "Nor can it reverse a Memory Charm."

"I would try it all the same… the sooner the better."

* * *

><p>"I can't even examine him properly," Irene complained. "I'll have to borrow Mrs Primrose's wand – but it won't be the same."<p>

She was holding her hand on Draco's forehead, trying to estimate the sleeping boy's temperature.

"What do you think may have happened to him in the bog? He looks cursed."

Thanks to his own night walk in the area, Snape had a clear picture in his mind of what the boy must have gone through. But something did not add up.

"What an idiot!" he burst out. "Trying to walk off, like a bored guest, never mind that the place is guarded and full of dangers, when he had only half a year more to do here!"

Irene was silent. She knew just as well as Snape did that the boy was going to pay dearly for the desperate attempt.

"I've known him since he was a small kid," Snape continued angrily. "The only reason why I'm not sorry for him is that he Stunned you so cruelly."

Irene glanced round in the ward. They were alone, except for the guards outside the door.

"I don't know how it is possible," she said. "I simply can't believe it."

"He was a Death Eater even if not the worst kind," Snape reminded her. "What did you expect?"

Irene shook her head.

"Draco didn't Stun me," she whispered. "I've told you... I'm bad at fighting, and my wand is not suitable for hurting people. It refuses to cause anyone any deliberate harm. That was my luck... and his luck, too."

"What are you talking about?" Snape demanded, bewildered. "You said he was the attacker!"

"Yes, he was... but he didn't _Stun_ me. He tried to...to... only he failed... Oh, Severus, it is so hard to say such a thing... He tried to use the Killing Curse on me."

Snape locked her into his arms tightly. His brow glistened with perspiration as he understood what danger she had escaped from, due to sheer chance. _The Killing Curse!_ Suddenly his mind was invaded by a rush of fury that made it unlikely that even an olive wand could be safe in his hands now. _The wretched moron! What had come over him?_ Snape remembered that Draco Malfoy had tried to murder Albus Dumbledore several times; but he also remembered that Draco had had orders from the Dark Lord then; and in the end, he had not cast the Killing Curse on a wandless and helpless Dumbledore despite having a once-in-a-lifetime chance to do it. How could he think of murdering Irene, who had never done him any harm, who had treated his father with such patient kindness that only someone who had not known Lucius in his heyday was capable of?

What had Draco hoped to achieve by risking so much? Even if he had got out of the camp in the mayhem he had caused, how would he have lived his life afterwards?

"Someone might come," Irene whispered.

She caressed his face gently, then disentangled herself from his embrace and adjusted the pillow under Draco's head.

* * *

><p>"You need to rest," Snape said later, when, after examining every single patient in the wards, Irene sat down in the potions laboratory.<p>

According to the clock, it was morning already, but still dark. He gave her a dose of Strengthening Solution.

"You should go home."

Irene did not answer, and finally, as though it was just an afterthought, he added what he really meant to say.

"Or you might come with me… It may not be safe to walk about alone."

He did not know that Irene was silent because she was thinking of Mr Grey's ultimatum. Accepting the invitation would have dangers... although... last night she had been seen in Severus's hut - with him. Perhaps it did not matter much now. But it did matter to Severus a great deal. She could see it in his face. And Mr Grey had other things to mind at the moment.

She hesitated, and Snape wished he could take the offer back. The place where he had to live was anything but inviting. She was too tactful to say that, but, naturally, he knew... he knew it perfectly. He began cleaning up in the laboratory.

With his back towards her, he was busy scrubbing a cauldron when suddenly a pair of arms entwined around him, and her face was pressed against his shoulder.

"Let me help you," she said. "I can borrow Mrs Primrose's wand again... or I can help without a wand. Will you let me?"

"You have worked enough," he answered, turning round.

He was stroking her hair absently for a few minutes.

"I fear for you," he began slowly. "I could have lost you. I don't want you to wander around the place without being able to defend yourself. Be careful with Tanner, too. He tried to force me to brew love potion for him. Who knows what dangerous stuff he may get hold of next time..."

Irene's lips parted with surprise.

"Once I knew someone," Snape continued, "who never drank anything but what he had put into his own flask. Perhaps you should do the same... and you'd better watch your back when you walk among convicts. You can see what even the least dangerous of them can do..."

"I'd like you to examine Draco when he wakes up," she said. "You know much more about the Dark Arts than I do... Don't worry; I won't go to the village... not because I don't have a wand, but because I … because I want to be with you."

They walked back to Snape's hut and had breakfast together. They both needed a rest, and Irene was soon fast asleep on the narrow bed. Snape was only half-asleep, however, and from time to time he woke up, watched and listened. There were noises in the camp, and he half-expected the door to burst open... He was amazed that Irene was able to sleep so peacefully and with so much trust in the relative safety his hut and his bed provided.

Later that day, Irene went home nevertheless; and she returned carrying a small trunk. She moved into a room in the hospital building, since travelling back and forth between the camp and the village on a daily basis would have been too tiring for her now. She also brought the Pensieve to the camp, as one of her own possessions. They would surely find the time for Severus to watch his memories in it - at least until Mr Grey lost his patience and gave Irene the sack for being on familiar terms with a convict...

As Irene had requested, Snape went with her to the ward where Draco was awake now, though silent and sulky.

"I met his mother in the village," Irene said in a subdued voice, as they were approaching the ward together. "She had been summoned by Mr Grey, but had not yet been allowed to visit Draco. She's awfully worried. You can't imagine how she was begging me to take care of her son."

"I can", Snape replied. "Vividly. Did you tell her Draco had wanted to kill you?"

"I couldn't. She was already in despair."

"You're too good."

Irene threw him a tired smile.

"What about you?" she asked quietly. "Saving Tanner... _you_ of all people? Giving him your cloak to keep him warm?"

Snape stopped at the door of the ward, staring at her intently. She stopped, too.

"Perhaps I _wanted_ to be good," he said. "Perhaps."

"You _are_ good, Severus," she said kindly.

"Don't run away with the idea," he replied with a strange glint in his eyes. "But I would have done more to deserve to find you alive. I could hardly have been more selfish."

Snape spent a long time examining Draco. He especially studied those glassy grey eyes and the boy's monotonous, mechanical movements.

"You were right," Snape said when they were once again alone in the laboratory. "There is something."

"What is it?"

"I think he is under the Imperius Curse. He must have been for a while. And it wasn't long ago that he got his last orders."

"You mean like... yesterday?"

Snape nodded.

"Possibly. When are you going to get a new wand?"

Irene frowned.

"I'll go to London as soon as I feel up to the journey. It'll be exhausting because I'll have to return immediately. So many patients can't be left without a healer for more than a few hours. But it's a nuisance having to use a borrowed wand all the time."

She waved the low-quality and timeworn spare wand the camp had in store for situations similar to hers.

"Do you think you can remove the curse with it?" Snape asked. "It would be healthier to do it quickly. The longer Draco is under the curse, the more serious damage he may suffer. Besides, he can't say anything in his own defence until that is done. He almost certainly received orders to remain silent."

"I can't remove an Imperius Curse until I get my new wand. I've never done it yet, and this wand just doesn't work for me properly," Irene replied. "Mr Grey will be furious when he hears about this new delay. He can't wait to find out what Draco knows about Alecto Carrow's disappearance."

Snape gaped at her.

"_Alecto Carrow_? Is there something that I missed?"

"Oh, you never speak to anyone, do you?" Irene said, astonished. "It's the talk of the camp... and Mrs Primrose is the heroine! Last night Alecto Carrow was found in her house badly burned and amnesiac – or so we thought. But she wasn't Alecto Carrow in reality, but Matilda Lestrange, transfigured to look like Alecto. Mrs Primrose had an inspiration and cast a 'Finite Incantatem' on her – and she changed back! If Mrs Primrose hadn't thought of that, it would have taken several hours more for anyone to discover Alecto's disappearance. She is believed to have escaped. The special unit is still out searching the area for her. Unfortunately, Matilda can't tell us anything. Someone has wiped her memory."

"Someone?" Snape repeated. "We have a pretty good idea of what happened, don't we?"

He could almost see in his mind's eye how Alecto had wiped Matilda's memory, subjected her to the dark magic that caused her wounds and added a series of Transfiguration spells, using Tanner's wand. Not that he felt especially sorry for Matilda, who had not been much better than Alecto, but his sense of justice protested against the thought that a notorious torturer should break free, leaving more pain and suffering in her wake.

"It is still a question how Alecto managed to escape," Irene said. "Draco was caught in the mist. Why wasn't _she_?"

"Draco was never meant to succeed," Snape answered. "He had to obtain a wand for Alecto and to cause as much distraction as possible with fiendfyre and Peruvian Darkness Powder, which someone must have brought from outside – no wonder Mr Grey wanted to talk to Narcissa! The building may have been set on fire by Alecto personally. She and her brother are specialists in this particular type of dark magic. They taught it to kids at Hogwarts!"

Irene shuddered.

"Perhaps Draco was ordered to kill someone and then to run away, calling everyone's attention to himself, while Alecto quietly left by another route," Snape went on. "Draco was _meant to be caught_. If he had also committed murder, Alecto's escape might easily have been overlooked at first. In case it was not, Alecto used an old friend of hers to play her role for a while. It would have provided her with plenty of time to give the aurors the slip."

Snape paused for a moment.

"There is one thing Alecto can't have done. She didn't Imperiuse Draco. She needed him to get her a wand, and the curse had to be cast with a wand. Someone with a wand must have been here, on camp territory, otherwise he could not have met Draco… I wonder where Alecto's brother is. Has he ever been caught?"

Irene was sitting and gazing into the fire pensively. She seemed small and fragile.

"You know, Irene," he said in a softer voice, "it may not have been because of your wand only… In his heart, Draco may have refused to harm you. He obeyed the curse but he did not really mean it… Alecto failed to take that into consideration. Perhaps that's why he took you into my hut… to provide you with some shelter."

"No, I don't think he meant it," Irene replied. "He was just unable to resist the curse. What did these Carrows do at Hogwarts?"

"They were placed into the school by the Dark Lord to teach the students new ideas and probably to keep an eye on me."

"Even after Dumbledore's death?"

"He wasn't a trusting one."

"What did they teach?"

"Amycus taught Dark Arts… not 'Defence', just Dark Arts. Alecto taught Muggle Studies… in her own way."

Irene was quivering. Snape took her hand into his and kissed it.

"I'm sorry."

"Charity had to die so that this woman could get a position at Hogwarts."

"Charity died because she had angered the Dark Lord with her opinion about Muggles and Muggle-born wizards and witches. She was very brave to express that opinion despite the danger it meant."

Irene rose and her gaze hardened as she spoke.

"The Imperius Curse must be lifted immediately. Not with this wand, for sure, but I may try Mrs Primrose's… Removing the curse will provide us with the ultimate proof that it had been there in the first place. We will never have this proof if we wait for the curse to wear off naturally."

"That's right."

"But I wish I could practise the counter-curse first," Irene continued. "If I made a mistake, it would do at least as much harm to Draco as the delay. Still … he might have some information about this woman, and she may escape if we procrastinate."

Snape had an idea.

"If you need Mrs Primrose's wand anyway-"

"Oh, she wouldn't mind lending it to me, but I doubt she'd like to try to remove an Imperius Curse herself. I'm the healer, you know, and I can't put such a responsibility on her."

"That's not what I'm suggesting," Snape said gravely. "If you trust me... I know how to remove the curse… I have done it many times. I have also used Mrs Primrose's wand once. Just borrow it and don't tell her who is going to use it. Mr Grey doesn't need to find it out either. It should be all right."

Irene clapped her hands.

"I have a better idea! Mr Grey _must _know about it! He must see it! If removing the curse provides the ultimate proof, we shouldn't do it secretly!"

"Mr Grey will never consent to -"

"Give him a chance at least! He urgently wants to interrogate Draco, doesn't he?"

"But he doesn't trust me. He was ready to believe that I had cursed Tanner and even _you_."

"Well, he was wrong. He will be obliged to see how much."

"Realistically thinking, there isn't much hope -"

"Severus," Irene said impatiently, "how are you going to convince the Wizengamot of the great truth if you don't even risk Mr Grey's refusal?"

"Don't even _risk_? And what do you mean by that?" Snape snapped, offended.

"I meant what I said, what else?"

Impulsively, he grabbed his cloak and opened the door.

"All right, I won't be called a coward! Let's go and see what happens!"

"Don't twist my words!"

They were marching towards Mr Grey's office in resentful silence. The ground was icy, and soon Snape felt tempted to take her hand lest she might slip – but they never walked hand in hand in front of others.

"I want to say something," Irene said, slowing down.

It was getting dark already, and the broad trunk of a tree hid them from the sight of most passers-by.

"I never did and I never would call you a coward."

"I know," he muttered, relieved to be proved wrong and forgiven at the same time. He regretted losing his temper.

"Let's go then," she said. "Mr Grey will gladly accept your help. If not, you can throw snowballs at me."

"No," he replied with a roguish look. "If you are wrong, you will kiss me in front the whole camp."

She chuckled.

"I can promise anything because I know I'm right. What will be _my_ reward?"

"The same," he answered curtly.

Irene turned serious.

"Don't be stupid," she whispered softly. "You wouldn't want to kiss in public. You wouldn't enjoy it. I know you."

Of course, she was right. When he was with her, he craved privacy, not publicity. Yet, joking aside, he longed to be able to assert his claim to her by right of mutual love, by right of her choice as well as of his, and to make this claim known to everyone, and he wished he could do it without damaging her reputation or compromising her position in the world of the free.

* * *

><p>"No, you can't visit him yet," Mr Grey said. "Come back tomorrow. The aurors will be here in an hour, and I WANT EVERYTHING IN ORDER!"<p>

These last words were addressed to the secretary at least as much as to Narcissa, who was coming out of the office sobbing. She stopped as she saw Irene and Snape, and gaped at them, while the secretary was whispering something to her boss.

"Come in, hurry up!" Mr Grey shouted. "We don't have the whole day!"

The office door closed behind them.

"Well, what about the Malfoy boy?" the Warlock inquired. "Can he be interrogated?"

Irene was about to answer, but Snape was quicker.

"Someone Imperiused him," he said. "We believe his condition is directly related to Alecto Carrow's escape. He will probably be able to give you information as soon as the curse is taken off him."

"Why don't you lift the curse then?"

Mr Grey was clearly addressing Irene now.

"Because I'm not a specialist in Unforgivables, and I don't have my own wand," she replied. "Severus, however, is willing to try it with a borrowed wand since he is more experienced in counter-curses than I am."

"I bet he is," snorted Mr Grey.

Snape bit his lip in frustration, but Irene remained patient.

"We think you may want to be present when it is done," she said.

Mr Grey glared at Snape furiously, and Snape was certain he had lost. He did not look away though, but stared back at Mr Grey defiantly. Irene could see he had tried.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Mr Grey bellowed. "Where is that boy?"

The Warlock himself dictated the pace, running ahead of them, out of his office and towards the hospital.

Irene and Snape exchanged a quick glance before following him.

_The aurors_, Snape thought. Mr Grey desperately wanted to be able to show some progress with the Carrow case, so he seized the opportunity even though it was offered by a convict.

The three of them stood round the boy's bed. Draco closed his eyes.

"We need Mrs Primrose's wand," Irene said.

Snape thought even the wand of one of the guards standing at the door might do just as well, but he refrained from suggesting anything. Mr Grey, however, spoke.

"There's no time to waste," he growled. "Here's a wand... Take it and hurry up!"

He reached into his pocket and offered his own wand to Snape.

Even with the armed guards just outside the ward, the fact remained that of the four people in the room, Snape alone was holding a wand in his hand. Mr Grey either had gone crazy with worry about the aurors, or did not distrust Snape half as much as he had made it seem.

"Have you forgotten the spell, or what?" the Warlock snarled.

Snape did not let Mr Grey rush him. Before doing anything else, he had to estimate roughly the time that had passed since the casting of the Unforgivable, because the counter-curse had to be matching in force. Too little magic would not achieve the required result. Too much magic could further harm the victim.

But Snape had not seen so many Imperiused victims in his life for nothing. He was fairly certain that Draco had not been under the curse for months… a couple of weeks at most... or less. It suddenly seemed as clear as daylight. _I will do anything for you_... Draco had not been involved in a romantic affair that night... He was promising complete obedience to the person who had just Imperiused him, a method sometimes used to rub in the notion of absolute submission even more. And _he_ had been there and heard it…

He raised the borrowed wand…

"Is there no one in this blasted hospital who can cast a counter-curse but you?"

Draco's sharp voice cut into the bewildered silence in which the three people standing round his bed were watching the departure of the Unforgivable. Draco's face had changed colour several times, ranging from sunshine yellow to dark purple, until he got back his usual pale complexion and with it, apparently, his willingness to talk.

Irene threw a quick side-glance at Mr Grey, but he did not appear to mind the boy's impertinence.

"Interrogation," he growled. "Leave me alone with him."

"This was wonderful," Irene whispered to Snape as they left the ward.

Snape did not respond. He did not mind Draco – the boy would never like him, and he could live with that. But he was angry, even ashamed, to realize he had expected something from Mr Grey, a word or at least a look, for what he had just done. _I'm not a slave_, he fumed, knowing full well that he _was_, as Irene, in defiance of anyone who might happen to pass by, put her arm through his. But the friendly gesture was not enough. Snape reached for her with his other arm, too, turned her towards himself and kissed her with a violent passion that was bitter rather than sweet and which left Irene gasping for breath.

His ill-timed desire for her, into which all possible desires seemed to be sublimated now, was still aflame in him as he left for his hut. It was too late to start brewing potions that day, and he did not want to meet any aurors; Irene, however, had to see her other patients once more before this irregular day was over. He would come back later to find out what she planned for the evening. In the meantime, he would carry out another unavoidable duty - for he was certain that he would run into Lucius before reaching the hut. And unless he was very much mistaken, Narcissa, too, was still in the camp, awaiting news of her son.


	32. The Auror at Work

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 32**

_The Auror at Work_

"Dinner's ready," Irene announced early in the evening, when Snape entered her private room in the hospital building.

She began laying the table. On her visit to the village, she had stopped at _The Village Inn_ and bought some sausages, which she was serving now, while Snape contributed some cold food to their shared dinner. Irene was in a practical mood, and she soon pointed out to Snape that it was time he began to occupy himself with the Pensieve and prepare for a new trial.

"I don't even know whether I'll be granted a new trial or not," he said. "I haven't received any answer yet."

"Why wouldn't you?" Irene gaped at him.

Snape shrugged. Recently he had started wondering if there could be a fly in the ointment, and it seemed the most serious danger was that his request for a new trial might be refused. He was not an expert at the finer points of law, but he could imagine a thousand ways in which things could go wrong – he might miss a deadline, the additional punishment he had received in the camp might result in his disqualification from a second trial … and there could be things he could not even imagine.

"If you have new evidence …" Irene broke off. She was not an expert either, and an unpleasant thought struck her. "Do you mean they may say your memories are not really new evidence since you had them last time, too?"

"They may," Snape nodded, "though, as a matter of fact, I do have evidence I did not have last time."

He reached into his pocket and showed her the Resurrection Stone.

"I'd like you to keep this safe for me," he said. "The hut is unsafe; anyone can enter when I'm not there."

He told her everything he knew about the stone, and Irene listened with eyes wide open. She asked no questions but took the stone from him and put it into a drawer in her bedroom.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Mrs Primrose was standing on the threshold, a tray of mince pies in her hands.

"Here's your medicine," she beamed at Irene, proudly raising the tray. Then, noticing Snape, she sent him a smile, too.

Snape, however, had never before reacted as badly to Mrs Primrose's appearance as now, and although he quickly assumed a look of indifference, the nurse did catch a glimpse of disapproval in his expression, and her smile became colder. Otherwise she did not seem to be disturbed by anything as she came inside and placed her tray on the table.

Inviting her to join them for dinner was inevitable now, since Irene was a polite person, and Snape, resigned to his fate, sat down between the two women. The mince pies were nevertheless good, and the conversation was of some interest: Snape found out that, although the aurors had arrived, they had not visited anyone in the hospital yet, which was very well, since the interrogation with Mr Grey had thoroughly exhausted Draco. The aurors had had a long discussion with the Warlock though, and they had also summoned Lucius. That last bit of information was supplied by Snape, who also knew that Narcissa had voluntarily accompanied Lucius to the interrogation. Mrs Primrose was positive that the aurors were staying in the camp for the night and were going to continue their investigation in the morning.

Mrs Primrose gave Snape credit for suggesting the 'Finite Incantatem' spell that she had used on the fake Alecto, and she explained that the only reason why she had not mentioned it to Mr Grey was the reprimand she had earlier received for accepting too much help from him. She duly complimented Snape, but Snape could not be bribed so easily, and he continued to wish Mrs Primrose would leave. Yet, they kept talking about various subjects, until Snape had to realize that Mrs Primrose, like a self-appointed chaperone, was determined to outstay him. Since Irene was looking increasingly tired, there was nothing else to do but stand up, announce that it was getting late (throwing a meaningful glance at the nurse) and leave. Irene rose, too, offering to see him out because the hospital was locked at that hour. And so she walked with him to the exit.

"I hope she is happy," Snape said with repressed anger. "She has succeeded in saving you from me."

"She means well," Irene replied, smiling.

"What does she think would happen if she left you alone with me for an hour?"

"Oh, I'm sure her imagination in this respect leaves nothing to be desired," Irene answered, chuckling, and Snape rather wished she had not mentioned that last word.

"Will I get a parting kiss?" Irene asked at the front door.

Instinctively, Snape glanced round. Remembering how he had threatened to kiss her in front of the whole camp, Irene found this precaution quite amusing.

"Oh, come on, everyone is asleep," she said.

"Except for Mrs Primrose," he replied, drawing her close.

"Don't be paranoid."

The kiss was long, and even when it was over, he held her in a silent embrace for several minutes.

"I'll get rid of her tomorrow night," she promised softly. "I'll find a kind way to send her away."

"Why don't you make Mr Grey ask her out? They could go anywhere…" Snape said wistfully as he let go of her.

"Leave that to me," she replied, closing the door behind him.

She thought if Mrs Primrose was really as perceptive as Severus considered her to be, they had every good reason not to wish for a long conversation between her and Mr Grey. Of course, Severus did not know they were already being watched, and she still did not have the heart to tell him … or to try and keep their relationship truly secret.

The next morning, Snape was summoned to Mr Grey's office again. He supposed the aurors needed his testimony, or at least he hoped it was not worse than that. But he found the Warlock alone. Rather than asking questions, Mr Grey had something to say to him. He informed Snape that, in reward for his help with solving the Carrow case, the additional sentence of five years that his original punishment had been extended with was now nullified. Mr Grey seemed very satisfied with this turn of events. As Irene had guessed, Minister Shacklebolt had indeed told him he was not to add anything to the sentence the Wizengamot had already pronounced on Severus Snape, and even when he could not avoid punishing him, he was to make sure the punishment was light. Ever since then, Mr Grey had been waiting for an opportunity to reverse the decision that had met with the Minister's disapprobation, and was glad to finally be able to do so.

"So it is only the original fifteen years again," he said cheerfully, as though fifteen years of imprisonment could be regarded as a mere trifle.

Snape gave no reply. He still expected something like a verbal 'thank you' from the Warlock, but it was not coming. Instead, Mr Grey made a different remark.

"What is more, you have successfully strengthened your privileged position in the camp."

"Privileged?" Snape repeated, his lips curving disdainfully.

"Can you deny that you have a special job and a special status among the convicts?"

"As well as a special skill," Snape answered, "that you all happen to need."

Mr Grey did not like this response, and his expression became less friendly.

"In your own interest," he said, "and perhaps in the interest of others, I must warn you not to forget what your social situation is."

"I won't," Snape replied silkily. "Your people remind me every day. They do an excellent job of it."

"And so they should!" Mr Grey retorted. "Just as I cannot change the Wizengamot's decision, I cannot disregard the rules of this camp either; therefore you would do well to keep them in mind, too. Has Healer Burbage told you about her dilemma?"

Snape could not hide his astonishment. Irene had a dilemma that Mr Grey knew about but _he_ did not… The Warlock scrutinized him triumphantly.

"So she hasn't mentioned it yet. Well, it is just to show that not only convicts but even employees are bound by certain rules. Though convicts are allowed to have friends among free people, employees are not allowed to enter into any sort of personal relationship with inmates; and if they wish to do so, they must give up their employee status in this camp… But I won't keep you from your work any longer. I hope you will continue to be a useful and privileged member of our community."

Snape went to the laboratory almost like a sleepwalker. Why had he had to learn that from Mr Grey? Irene should have told him… But perhaps she wanted to make a decision on her own. Perhaps she _had_ made a decision, and Mrs Primrose's visit the night before had been arranged by her… But then Irene had promised to get rid of her… of course, if _she_ had arranged for Mrs Primrose to come, it would be easy for her to call it off… but why? Snape thought Irene's behaviour had been somewhat contradictory lately. Then again, perhaps she had made a decision but found it difficult to stick with it because of the way he was clinging on to her… because he felt he needed her more and more. Perhaps she sensed that and was unable to keep her distance as consistently as Dumbledore had done when Snape would have needed _him_ so much … and he had told Irene about that… How difficult it must have been for her!

He recalled how many times he had advised her to find a better workplace. Now all he had to do was kiss her in public and she would be sacked. But he knew he could not do it. He could not bring shame on her and he could not go against her wish to keep her job whatever it was, especially that she had taken that job not least for _his_ sake. It would be different if she had another job waiting for her somewhere… but to quit just so she could declare her love for a man who was at the moment a convicted criminal in the eyes of the world (as Mr Grey had so eloquently rubbed it in) was hardly an option for her.

While Irene was in the camp, they were at least able to see each other every day. But they would have to pretend that their relationship was official only, and Snape almost envied Lucius, who had his wife nearby practically all the time, without the slightest necessity to conceal that they belonged together. Her presence was good for Lucius; although Snape was not sure the man was able to fully appreciate it. He was quite sure though that Narcissa was unhappy; and Irene might not be any happier if she were reduced to the status of a convict's lover and nothing else. Nor would she be able to afford it financially, as Narcissa could.

Thus, one way or another, he would have to lose her because she could stay in the camp only if they kept a considerable distance from each other, whereas, if she were camp healer no longer, she would have to live far away from him, save the occasional visits, as opportunity provided. Perhaps the best thing was to let her choose and support her choice... But it hurt that she did not share it with him - even if her purpose was to spare him the pain of it for the time being. _As if it was possible_, he thought, recalling how he had craved her company in the past few days and how he suffered from being left unsatisfied.

His only hope was to get out of the place soon, and he regretted not having started to fight for his freedom earlier. His worries considering some unforeseen obstacles returned, and he began brewing potions as though his punishment had just been extended, not reduced.

He was still in this bad mood an hour later, when there was a knock on his door.

"Enter!" he called, looking up from his work.

The door opened, and Harry Potter came in, wearing an auror's uniform. Snape had never seen him in this attire, and he eyed him rather curiously for a moment or two before realizing that there was more to wonder about this visit than just Potter's robes.

"Good morning, Professor," Potter said in a rather formal way. "I received your letter in which you agreed to my visit," he added, as though he was anxious to assert his right (as per Snape's permission) to be there.

"Sit down, Potter," said Snape. "I assume you are here to investigate Alecto's escape."

Potter shot him a sharp look at being called by his surname, like in his student years, but Snape was as morose as ever, and Harry understood that Snape would not call him by his first name again without a special reason.

"Yes," he replied, "I have just talked to Draco."

"He's going through a rough time," Snape said without stopping chopping ingredients.

"I tried to be humane," Potter muttered.

Snape cast a sly, sideways glance at him.

"Don't let the word get out – your fans will be disappointed if they hear you have been anything less than _angelic_."

Harry stared at him, but then he saw his former professor's mouth twitch, and the look in his eyes was not really angry any more, as though the opportunity to once again taunt a Potter had placated him. Harry risked a faint, good-natured grin.

"I have also talked to a guard called Tanner," he said. "Mr Grey gave me this." He produced a potion bottle, in the contents of which Snape recognized Doctor Dulcamara's Delight. "Mr Grey thinks this liquid should be examined. It was found in Tanner's pocket, and Tanner doesn't know what is in it."

"Accidentally, Tanner told you the truth," Snape replied. "He does not know what is in it, but I can tell you: nettle wine."

"Only?" Potter asked.

"Mostly. You can have it examined. No poison."

Potter put the bottle back into his pocket.

"Have you managed to reconstruct what transpired?" Snape inquired, unable to restrain his curiosity.

"Yes, I've got all the important details. Draco won't be charged with anything but he will have to give evidence in front of the Wizengamot."

"You have to catch Alecto first," Snape observed.

Potter grinned more widely this time.

"I already have. She and her brother are both in custody now."

The boy fully savoured the momentary expression of wonder and disbelief flickering across Snape's face, and he kept grinning smugly until Snape found it irritating.

"All right, Potter, you'd better tell me how it happened before you burst with the urge to do so," he said.

"Alecto was captured in the battle, but Amycus escaped, and it was my job to find him," Harry began. "Sometimes I was really close, but I completely lost his track in December. That was when he came here to free his sister. He befriended one of the wetland guides and succeeded in Imperiusing him. Secretly, the guide brought him to this camp, but leaving with Alecto was more difficult because of the wards. There is a lot of extra security magic applying to prisoners, and the guide would not have been able to stop the alarm activated when Alecto stepped out of bounds. That was where Draco came in. I guess almost any of the convicts would have served Amycus Carrow's purpose, but chancing upon Draco must have seemed especially lucky, because Amycus knew him well."

"Idiot boy," Snape murmured.

"Amycus Imperiused him just before Christmas," Harry continued. "Together they arranged meetings between Alecto and Amycus, where everything was planned. As you know, they used Draco to create some disturbance and to acquire a wand for Alecto on New Year's Eve. Draco was ordered to kill the owner of the wand. Healer Burbage seemed to be the easiest target, but when she survived the attack, Alecto realized that wand would not work for her very well. It was possible to disarm Tanner with it though, while Amycus started the fiendfyre. With Tanner's wand, Alecto cursed the guard, and she used Matilda Lestrange to unwittingly cover for her. Then Draco had to throw Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder all over the place."

Snape nodded. Potter's account of the events corresponded with his own suspicions.

"The Imperiused wetland guide succeeded in navigating them out of the camp even in the darkness. They took Draco along, but when they were out there, they sent him in another direction. They didn't even give him a wand or a warm cloak. When the breakout alarm sounded, Draco was easily caught. In the meantime, the Carrows escaped. If Alecto's absence had not been discovered early enough, we would have been looking for Matilda Lestrange, and both Alecto and Amycus would have left the country by now."

Potter paused for a second.

"We were able to go after them in time – thanks to you. We also recovered the wands they had taken."

"It is strange that they didn't leave the country immediately," Snape said, silently registering the good news that Irene had got her wand back. "It must have taken some time to track them down."

"And isn't it strange," Potter asked, "that Amycus chose to get his sister out of prison instead of saving his own neck when he had happily left her to her fate in the battle? I had done a bit of research into their lives and connections before, and I knew where to find _both_ of them as soon as I heard about Alecto's escape. We got there in the last minute though."

Snape lit the fire under yet another cauldron, as Potter went on.

"The Carrows had a rich uncle, who lived and died in Australia, and left his nephew and niece a nice amount of treasure in his Gringotts vault. The news of his death reached the Carrows on the eve of the Battle of Hogwarts."

"I remember," Snape put in, "they wanted to go to Gringotts very badly then, but the moment was most inopportune due to a certain bank robbery that had just taken place."

Potter grinned again.

"After the battle, however, Amycus headed towards Gringotts at once."

"He must have counted on the goblins' loyalty to the Dark Lord a tad too much."

"I reckon the goblins weren't eager to take sides right away," Harry replied. "They didn't report Amycus to anyone. But they were relieved to see that they couldn't give him his inheritance either. The uncle must have had some doubts about his heirs' –"

"… integrity?"

"Yes. He had made a will that did not permit them to open the vault for the first time unless both Alecto and Amycus were present. According to the will, if one of them was prevented, the other one had to wait. Moreover, if one of them had died before the opening of the vault, the surviving sibling could not have taken possession of the inheritance for twenty years."

"Very insightful," said Snape.

"That's why it became important for Amycus to get his sister out of the camp, and that's why I hurried to Gringotts when I heard of the escape."

"But they had to identify themselves if they were to receive the treasure," Snape said, shaking his head.

"Only to the goblins, and they hoped – not without reason – that the goblins' loyalty would be to their clients in the first place."

"So will they be brought to this camp now?" Snape asked abruptly.

"Azkaban would be a better place for them," Harry answered. "But we need Draco's testimony first."

He cast a searching look at Snape.

"But there's another subject we must talk about."

The cauldrons were boiling peacefully now, and Snape had some time to sit down opposite Potter, who recounted him that through the debate in the Quibbler, he and Hermione Granger had found and shortlisted a number of wizards and witches who could be useful witnesses at a new trial for Snape. Following Hermione's advice, Potter had visited each of them personally and they had all agreed to support Snape with their testimonies (and here, Snape was aware that Potter's fame and popularity were at least as important factors as the witnesses' memories of his actions in his days as Headmaster). He noticed, however, that Potter appeared troubled.

"We must decide what to do next," Potter said. "A new trial makes sense only if we can be reasonably sure of its success. Unfortunately, these witnesses can only assert that you were not a cruel torturer, like the Carrows, despite being a Death Eater and a Headmaster appointed by Riddle. Your name will be truly cleared only if we can prove that you actively helped our cause and that you acted according to a plan all the time."

Potter sighed.

"I suppose," he asked tentatively, "your position regarding your own testimony is still the same?"

Snape watched the boiling cauldrons thoughtfully.

"No, not the same," he replied, his gaze returning to Potter. "In the absence of hard evidence or a third party bearing witness to my discussions with Dumbledore, Shacklebolt says only Dumbledore's own words can fully convince the Wizengamot that I'm not a murderer. They shall get those words. I do not promise anything more, but I can promise they will hear Dumbledore's words. That should be enough."

He did not say more, and they both were silent for a while.

"I'm glad to hear that," Potter said finally.

He glanced at his watch.

"I must go now," he said. "My colleague has left to find and bring back the wetland guide. I must talk to him, too."

"He's the one under the Imperius Curse," Snape observed.

"Yes," Potter replied. "I must take the curse off him before asking any questions."

That was exactly the detail that Snape had been thinking of, and he silently scolded himself now. Potter was an auror, and he had better face the fact that Potter had proved adept enough at Defence Against the Dark Arts. Potter was _supposed to be able_ to lift an Imperius Curse without his help.

Potter left and Snape began to prepare the ingredients for another cauldronful of potion to cure the aftereffects of the Imperius Curse. He spent the whole day working without seeking Irene's company. When he finished, he hesitated; then he hurried towards the front door. He did not trust his own strength when she was present. But Irene caught him at the door.

"I'll be alone tonight," she whispered to him with the unmistakable air of secrecy, "unless you want to share my solitude, of course."

Her arm gently brushed against his arm, and Snape had no idea where he would take the willpower to resist.

"I don't know, Irene," he said, his mouth dry. "I thought you wanted to be more careful than that."

He left without giving himself a chance to hear her reply, and Irene gaped after him, puzzled and, yes, offended. She could not comprehend what had come over Severus when only the day before he had so recklessly wanted to be with her, no matter what. She had already resigned herself to the truth that she was unable to pretend not to love him. Come what may, she would not refuse him her love just because Mr Grey expected her to. Besides, she knew she did not have to worry about being sacked for a while. The hospital would be full of patients for many days to come, and she had just received a letter from Titania informing her that her colleague had contracted dragon pox and would not be able to return to work in the near future.

Unaware of Irene's thoughts, Snape continued his way towards the hut, in his mind's eye still seeing her white, white figure, vulnerable and seductive at the same time, and he knew he had to steel himself not to look back and not to run back to her, because only by keeping his distance from her would he be able to truly keep her.


	33. Butterbeer and Tea

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 33**

_Butterbeer and Tea_

Draco was shivering and moaning. Narcissa was sitting on a stool next to her son's hospital bed, watching as Irene administered a goblet of antipyretic potion to him.

"You must leave, Madam," said a harsh voice.

Narcissa turned her head in the direction of the voice, and she saw a tall guard at the door of the ward.

"It is late," the guard announced. "No visitors can stay in the hospital for the night."

For a moment it seemed Narcissa would give a sharp answer – but then she rose. She did not want to lose the chance to visit her son again; therefore she decided to comply.

"Don't worry," Irene said encouragingly. "He'll be better soon. I'll stay with him."

Narcissa nodded and left. Tanner stayed at the door, watching Irene and grinning. He had just taken up work again, and his first hours on duty were at night and in the hospital. He was the only guard there now - there was no need for special guards by the Malfoy boy's bed any more. Irene glanced at him.

"The rule applies to you as well. Please, leave the ward."

"I'm not a visitor," Tanner replied. "I'm on duty."

"Your job is to patrol the corridors," Irene said, "and to prevent trouble. This is a ward, where only the patients and the healers are allowed to be at night."

"I was thinking of seeing you back to your room," Tanner offered, "to… prevent trouble. Who knows what may happen?"

"I'm staying in this ward," Irene answered. "Besides, I can protect myself. I have my wand back, and it's working properly."

Irene took the aforementioned wand into her hand, and Tanner looked annoyed. He, too, had got his wand back, but it did not seem to work for him quite as it had done before - a sign that its allegiance had turned away from him. To make matters worse, he had not managed to keep it secret. Irene, however, had no problems with her wand, and Tanner found that rather puzzling. He turned on his heel and walked away, his steps echoing in the corridor. Irene bent over Draco.

* * *

><p>A stormy wind was whistling outside again, as Snape put a large serving of potatoes in the oven for roasting. It was not a grand dinner, but since he was to spend the evening alone, it would be enough for him. When he heard the knock on his door, he felt a sense of apprehension. Then, after a brief hesitation, he went to the door, and opened it slightly. If he was visited by guards, they would get in anyway. As for hostile convicts, he should be able to deal with them.<p>

The visitor was again Potter, his robes covered with a thick layer of snow, and Snape, reluctantly, let him in. Potter's eyes scanned the hut as he entered. Snape pretended not to notice his guest's inquisitive gaze, but he did, very much. Potter had seen him in a pool of blood on the floor of the Shrieking Shack; Potter had seen him in hospital, helpless and shamefully dependent on others; Potter had visited him in the Ministry cell before the trial; and just a few hours earlier, Potter had seen him working as a convict in the potion laboratory of a prison camp – and Snape thought it was time to draw the line somewhere. Yet, Potter, ever oblivious of the mortification he was causing, had followed him one more step deeper into the abyss of his disgrace and was regarding the miserable place with undisguised curiosity.

"It's cold outside," Potter shuddered. (He did not add '_and inside'_, although he could have.) "I saw the light and thought you would be up yet. I've brought you some news."

Snape gestured towards a chair, and put an extra log into the fireplace. When he turned back to Potter, he saw the boy placing several bottles on the small table.

"There's nothing like hot butterbeer in this weather," Potter said, but Snape ignored him.

"I carried out some more… er … investigation," Potter continued warily. "This Tanner bloke mentioned some interesting things and I talked to others and… I ended up taking a look at your camp file."

"Hope you had fun," came the sardonic reply. Snape knew he had no legal right to protest.

"I reckon I'd better know about everything that may come up during the trial," Potter pointed out. "You have had some... eventful months here."

"Eventful. Indeed. Well, there's no denying that I'm dangerous. I have always been. You'd better remember that before you start defending me, yes."

"Actually," said Potter, "I started defending you half a year ago. But that's not the main point. Besides attacks on guards and break-out attempts, I have also found that you are rather unpopular with Death Eaters here."

"Is that mentioned in my record?" Snape asked, eyebrows slightly raised.

Potter grinned.

"Percy is a diligent official. He never fails to note down anything."

"And why does my unpopularity interest you?"

"Why do they hate you?"

Snape shrugged.

"They are convinced that I'm a traitor – even though I'm here with them."

"But what makes them think that?"

"They heard the rumours… you see, your work in this respect has not been completely in vain. You haven't convinced the Wizengamot, but you have convinced so many captive Death Eaters and dark wizards."

"Could we use that to our advantage? Do they know anything that might further prove your innocence?"

"I don't think so. I would have been dead long ago if they had ever had any proof. They simply… love to have a scapegoat to blame… so that it is not their stupidity or the Dark Lord's that got them here, but the work of a traitor. Taking their anger out on me eases their tension and makes them feel better. Oh, and it probably makes your victory less impressive in their eyes."

"Do they _still_ take it out on you?" Potter inquired, paying no attention to the last remark.

"They keep on hating me," Snape replied coldly, "but they stay clear of me these days."

He sat down at last, and Potter, tentatively, pushed the butterbeer bottles towards him. Potter himself picked up one, apparently waiting for Snape to do the same. Snape did not hurry, however.

"You didn't study the rules before coming here, did you, Potter?" he asked sharply. A glance from Potter informed him that he was right. "Drinking alcohol is strictly prohibited for convicts."

He felt that those words cost him the last remaining morsels of his pride, though he had only told the truth: Drinking or even possessing alcoholic drinks warranted punishment unless you were Lucius Malfoy – and sometimes _even if_ you were Lucius Malfoy.

Potter looked confused, almost guilty.

"There's hardly any alcohol in it…" he muttered.

Snape pressed his lips firmly together. The wizards who had made the list of drinks that were forbidden for convicts had definitely thought otherwise.

"I'm sorry," said Potter, and began gathering the bottles, first putting away the one he had been about to open.

He was stopped by a movement of Snape's hand.

"As an auror, you will be obliged to report this," Snape said with a deliberately provocative edge to his voice, as he picked up a bottle, opened it and drained it in one draught.

The butterbeer warmed him – he had already forgotten the sensation that was so familiar to every single Hogwarts student, old or new.

Potter swallowed hard.

"I'm a determined rule-breaker, you know," he replied, opening a bottle for himself.

"Still?" Snape asked, the butterbeer lifting his spirits a little.

"Always."

Snape's lips curled up.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you could have done well in Slytherin?" _With another Head of House, perhaps_, he added silently.

Potter stared at him, and Snape was sure the boy was furious now, but Potter's answer was quite calm.

"Yes. The Sorting Hat did."

Snape nearly spilled the next bottle of butterbeer.

"Tut, tut, how tactless," he said, hiding his surprise behind sarcasm. "Gryffindor's hat should have been able to predict you would rather follow the family tradition."

The green pair of eyes gave him an unusually penetrating look.

"I knew precious little about family traditions then," Potter replied. "All I knew was that my parents had been killed by a Slytherin… and I had already met Ron… and Draco."

Snape was silent and Potter took a gulp of butterbeer before going on. "The traditions had nothing to do with it … but it _was_ mainly because of my family that I refused Slytherin."

Snape was drinking the second bottle of butterbeer slowly, and did not feel like responding. In fact, he wished he had not brought up the topic at all. Potter spoke again.

"Sir," (Snape almost flinched at the title that he had become unused to, at the title that Potter had only grudgingly granted him in the years when he had had full right to it) "can I ask you something?"

When Snape did not object, he continued.

"Dumbledore thought you had been Sorted to soon… but you _wanted_ to be in Slytherin. Why?"

Perhaps it was the butterbeer that had softened Snape up, but he did not refuse to answer.

"It's exactly what I told your _dear_ father," he said. "Brains versus brawn. I could hardly regard myself as Gryffindor material; and after meeting your father and your godfather, even less so. But I always knew I had brains. It may not always have been apparent in matters of everyday life, but I had brains for lots of things."

"I used to think of the Half-Blood Prince as a real genius," Potter observed.

"Don't try to flatter me. You can't do it half as well as Draco could."

"Still," Potter said thoughtfully, "Ravenclaws are clever, too. They are good at studying and everything … Why didn't you choose Ravenclaw instead of Slytherin?"

From the kitchen, the aroma of roast potatoes wafted in. Snape brought two plates and some cutlery, and finally he put the potatoes on the table.

"I didn't expect any guests," he grunted, "but help yourself anyway. There'll be tea later."

"Thanks," Potter said tersely. "So why not Ravenclaw?"

"It's an old story," Snape replied. "It's no use discussing it. I never even considered Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff."

"But why not?"

"Is this an interrogation?"

"I'm only curious," Potter confessed. "Since I saw your memories, I've been wondering… a lot."

"Curiosity killed the cat," Snape snapped. "I had no special reason. I simply wanted to be in the house of a wizard founder, not of a witch. At that age, those things mattered. I thought witches' houses were for girls."

"Could it be because of your father?" Potter asked quite abruptly.

Snape glowered at the boy. Then, because Potter still had not touched the food, he tossed the larger part of the potatoes onto a plate and unceremoniously shoved it on the table in front of his guest. Taking the hint, Potter dug in.

"It could," Snape said curtly.

He had never thought of it that way, but Potter's question had just made a connection painfully clear to him. He had wanted a wizard father. Tobias Snape had rejected magic just as he had rejected his son; and he, Severus, had always imagined his father would love him if only he was a wizard, too. Of course, he had wanted a wizard father, and that was the reason why he had ever only considered Gryffindor and Slytherin; but Gryffindor had seemed to be for the kind of boys that he was not – boys who were strong, brawny and brave. He had refused Gryffindor before Gryffindor could refuse him; and then he spent his student years trying to beat Gryffindors at their own game – fights, duels and brainless, audacious exploits, like going into a mysterious, secret passageway that had been magically sealed from everyone except those who had the courage to risk anything...

Who could have guessed he would eventually beat them all with an incontestably _Slytherin_ act of bravery?

Potter pushed another bottle of butterbeer towards Snape.

"Even though you were in Slytherin, you remained friends with my Muggle-born mother for years," he said. "You must have known a lot of Muggles, too, like my grandparents. Yet, Slytherins despised these people."

"Most of my housemates," Snape replied," despised Muggles simply because they could not do magic, without really knowing them. I had first-hand experience of Muggles, and they did not impress me much. Your grandparents were kind people, but I rarely saw them. I saw Petunia much more frequently, and my father, of course. I also went to a Muggle primary school, and I didn't like it. I hated it, in fact."

"I hated my Muggle school, too," Potter said. "My cousin and his friends wanted to beat me every day, and I had to run from them. No one dared to be my friend because of them. My aunt and uncle never loved me. Vernon hated magic, and Petunia couldn't forgive me for being Lily's son."

Snape cast a strange glance at Potter. He remembered spiteful, jealous Petunia Evans very clearly. He had not thought it in those days that there could ever be an emotion (beyond their mutual jealousy about Lily) that the two of them would share. So Petunia could not forgive Potter for being Lily's son; while _he_…

Might it have perhaps – just perhaps - changed his attitude towards the boy if he had realised it early on that Petunia disliked him?

"I didn't even know that I was a wizard," Potter added. "You at least knew."

"And much good it did to me," Snape retorted. "You say you were disliked by your aunt and uncle, but I was disliked by my own parents … my father at least. And I knew I was a wizard, yet I had to keep it secret from everyone because of the Statute of Secrecy _and_ because of my father. It wasn't easy. There were no wizard kids until I met Lily, and I couldn't even dream of a Muggle friend whom I could have invited over to us… provided there _had been_ any kids willing to visit our home. They knew there was something weird about me; they could sense it, and they treated me accordingly. I wasn't allowed to use magic to defend myself."

"But you did use magic sometimes, didn't you?" Potter asked.

"When I couldn't stand it any longer," Snape nodded. "It was accidental child magic… or so I said when my parents found out. My father was anything but understanding though."

His lips twisted into a distorted, bitter smile.

"Some dunderheads at school were crazy about _Superman_," he recounted, his expression eloquent with disdain. "Once I told them I would be able to do all that one day. Their laughter taught me to keep my mouth shut… Then my teacher mentioned it to my mother, by way of a joke, that I was going to be Superman when I grew up… My mother didn't laugh, and the follow-up at home wasn't funny at all."

Even without the details of the 'follow-up', the single-person audience easily guessed that the memory was a stinging one.

"No, I didn't find the Muggles that I met particularly loveable."

"What about Muggle-borns? Weren't you afraid for my mother's safety when you saw the hostility of Slytherins? You still found her good enough to be your friend."

_More than good enough_, Snape thought.

"If you had known your mother, you would understand why I never assumed that my housemates could mean danger to her," he answered. "She was more than able to protect herself. I thought the real danger was the werewolf in Gryffindor Tower, but I wasn't allowed to explicitly warn her."

It was an unexpected relief to discover he could speak about Lily and stay relatively calm at the same time.

Potter's gaze was full of longing; it was the gaze of someone hungry for information; and he had already half-forgotten how thin the ice he was skating on was.

"But she and my father must have perceived a greater, graver danger; otherwise they wouldn't have joined the Order of the Phoenix. Did she ever tell you about it?"

At this, Snape's eyes flashed.

"None of us had the insight of future generations," he replied. "We only had our own petty, personal experiences. Lily may have realized that the world was becoming dangerous for Muggle-borns, but my experience was that it could be dangerous for _me_. Already there seemed to be a line dividing Slytherins from the rest of the wizarding world, as your father had been well aware since his first day at school. It was never a question for him where he stood… As a Slytherin, what could I have done? Could I have gone to James Potter saying that although he had ridiculed me and fought me countless times, although his best friend had tried to send me to death, although he had tortured me in full view of the whole school and although he had taken the girl I loved, I would like to be his friend and fight alongside him against my fellow-Slytherins just because I _knew_ that they were the good guys? How was I supposed to know? Which of my experiences should have warned me? And even if I _had_ known, who would have believed me? Who would have trusted me?"

Snape broke off and pushed the butterbeer away, perhaps blaming it for the unwitting indiscretion.

"No one knows better than you that they – _you_ - never trusted me later…" he added, forcing himself to calm down, "no matter what Dumbledore told anyone."

He looked at Potter again, but he could not read the boy's expression this time.

"Well, _Auror Potter_," he said in an acerbic tone, "is that what you have come here for? To question me? To get a new confession out of me? I thought you had news to tell me."

He glowered at the boy once more even as he realized that he was not half as angry as he would have expected himself to be, that his anger was still mingled with that strange sense of relief. No one had ever tried before to understand what had led to the disastrous choices of his youth, not even Dumbledore had seemed to be truly interested.

"Yes," Potter replied hurriedly, feeling suddenly eager to change the topic, "I do. I had to stay here for another day because the wetland guide was too confused to be interrogated until late in the afternoon. I had some free time and I spoke to Kingsley through the fireplace in my room and told him you had agreed to present Dumbledore's words to the Wizengamot. He called me back later and said your case would be heard by the Wizengamot next Tuesday if we could summon our witnesses until then. We have to give them a final answer until ten o'clock Monday morning. I have already alerted Hermione. We don't have much time, but since you have the conclusive evidence, there's nothing to wait for."

Next Tuesday… That was only a couple of days away. Snape found himself gripping the butterbeer bottle again. _If he won, he would be free._ _If he lost_… He did not even want to think of that possibility. Potter was right. There was nothing to wait for. There would be no more witnesses; there would be nothing better than Dumbledore's own words. If _that_ did not convince them, nothing would.

He placed two cups on the table and brought in the tea. Potter was watching the painting of Hogwarts on the wall.

When Potter rose to leave, Snape offered to accompany him. The boy's baffled expression made him smirk, but he did not want to reveal his real purpose. On the way towards the large office building, where Potter stayed in a guest room, they had to walk past the hospital, and Snape wanted a pretext to go that way. He had no particular plans, but he needed to know – to feel – that everything was all right where Irene was.


	34. The Vision

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 34**

_The Vision_

Draco was still unwell. The Imperius Curse combined with the horrors of the bog and the cold he had been exposed to without proper clothes had taken a toll on his condition. The second interrogation had wearied him at least as much the first one; and he had had a strangely twisted expression ever since. His feverish moaning and muttering gave Irene glimpses into the memories of a slave obeying without a will, into the memories of a runaway prisoner caught in a trap, into the mind of a scared, disoriented teenager facing magic he did not understand.

After visiting the other wards, she returned to check on him again. She had had time to search her own soul and to reassure herself that there was no anger in it towards Draco for the attempt on her life, which he had not been able to help; but she still preferred to take extra care rather than neglect any of her healer's duties because of some lingering, hidden resentment.

When Draco's temperature was normal again, Irene expected him to fall asleep but the boy sat up in his bed instead, following the healer's movements with intent eyes. Irene was disconcerted – she wondered whether she should give him a dose of Sleeping Draught again.

"Why don't you try to sleep?" she asked.

"I don't want to," he said sulkily.

"You need to sleep," Irene replied. "Sleep will help you recover."

"I have slept enough. I'm not so ill now."

"Healthy people sleep at night, too."

Draco shrugged, but Irene kept glancing at him inquiringly – until their eyes met. Irene's gaze lingered on him, but Draco averted his own almost immediately. It was too late, however, Irene had already caught a glimpse of a tell-tale look, and she knew what the trouble was.

The boy was afraid. He had the look of a beaten animal hearing the swish of the whip and knowing exactly what to expect. She spent a minute thinking of what she could do. It did not occur to her to dismiss the boy's problem as not her responsibility. She was his healer, the only one at the moment. Everything pertaining to her patient's physical and emotional condition was her job.

"The Carrows have been caught," she said. "What they have done warrants imprisonment in Azkaban. They can't reach you."

"I don't care."

It was not the Carrows then. She tried anew.

"No one blames you for what you did under the Imperius Curse."

Draco did not answer at once and Irene was certain that her second guess was not very far off the mark.

"Mr Grey says it is bad enough that I talked to Amycus Carrow," the boy said at last. "Amycus and I had been fellow-Death-Eaters… accomplices… and he was on the run."

"Did you agree, initially, to cooperate with him in any way?"

"He didn't give me a choice. But I did talk to him… or at least I listened to him. I made it possible for him to curse me. But he could have cursed me anyway. He had a wand."

"Therefore even if you _are_ punished, it won't be so bad. You didn't agree to any actual crimes."

Draco shuddered. Irene took his temperature.

"It _is_ bad already," he muttered. "And they can do anything… They hate me… You must hate me, too."

"I don't hate you," Irene said equably. "I understand that you can't resist that curse."

"But I was the Dark Lord's follower."

Irene sighed.

"I hope that you have come to regret it since then – or at least that you will."

"Do you think this camp makes us regret what we did?"

"I don't know," she answered. "It would be better if you could regret it anyway."

The boy looked up at her with the same fearful eyes.

"Do you want to know the truth?" he asked. "I had regretted it… long before I was arrested… Before the end of the war, I had wished I had never joined him, that my Dad had never joined him!"

It was hard to decide what to think. Irene had heard of the Malfoys' story, but not enough to be able to judge how much reason they had had to regret anything before the end of the war.

"You didn't quit though."

"_He_ would have killed us without a second's hesitation. He didn't hesitate to set his snake on Snape… And Snape had been his right-hand man, his advisor, his favourite… and Dumbledore's murderer! My Dad was only his fool."

Draco shivered, though his temperature was normal, and the ward was heated.

"My Dad used to make me believe that he was clever and powerful, but he was only a puppet in the Dark Lord's hand. The Dark Lord took his house, his best rooms, his money, even his wand … tortured us… and he still didn't dare to rebel. For months, I hoped he would think of something ingenious to get us out of that mess, but he would have crawled to the Dark Lord to kiss his feet if he could have put himself back in favour by that. But the Dark Lord saw through him… and despised him."

"What exactly are you lamenting, Draco?" Irene asked abruptly. "Is it that your family's loyalty to the dark side wasn't better rewarded or is it the evil things, the murders, the tortures, the losses that so many innocent people suffered because of someone your family supported?"

Draco covered his eyes with his hands for a moment as though he wanted to escape a vision – then he cast a haunted look at Irene.

"The Dark Lord made me torture people," he whispered. "I hated it. _He_… enjoyed watching. And I saw him kill."

Irene had a slightly queasy feeling in her stomach.

"You can't be surprised that Death Eaters are detested everywhere," she said coldly. "He tortured my aunt, Professor Burbage, before murdering her. I know how she died."

Draco shuddered again.

"It was in our house," he croaked, "on the day that the Dark Lord took my Dad's wand. It was a warning to us all. The Dark Lord had the power to punish and torture any of us if he liked. He could have killed us and fed us to his snake - like her. It was a lesson for us all… _on our own table_… I felt sick but I would have been mad to let it show."

Suddenly Irene felt sick, too. Her expression froze. She must have misunderstood something… she must have misunderstood. Severus had told her… he had told her…

"His… _snake_?" she asked, not sure she wanted to hear any answer.

Draco's face turned grey.

"I thought you knew," he muttered.

Irene did not need to hear more. She was suffocating – although her knees were weak, she could not stay in the ward any longer. She reached her room and sank into a chair just in time to avoid fainting.

Could it be true? It might be just a nightmare, the product of an imagination distorted by illness… Severus had told her Charity had been buried secretly… But he had mentioned no details… With a chill down her spine, she remembered the large snake in Severus's dream, the snake slithering round in the room at the moment of Charity's death… A snake in a dream induced by snake venom was almost a natural component, and she had never given it much thought, but … what if…?

She should have a talk with Severus… but Severus had offended her that evening, leaving in that curt, unfriendly manner when she had invited – invited! – him to spend the night with her, and if it should also turn out now that he had intentionally lied to her about Charity, then Severus Snape had better not come near her for a while.

The older Malfoys would know… but they were a deceitful, self-serving lot; why would _they_ tell her the truth? It was not in their interest to reveal any additional crimes they had been involved in…

The mental picture of Charity's body, mutilated and destroyed, was tormenting her, and it seemed she would never be able to recall her aunt in her mind as she used to be in life… But perhaps there _was_ a way – Severus had told her that, too, and she was willing to give credence to his words despite the earlier lie, if that could somehow restore Charity's memory to wholeness again…

She was sitting with the Resurrection Stone in her hands for long minutes, trying to figure out what was deterring her from doing what she had already decided to do. Was she afraid to betray the trust of the one who had once answered her very direct question with a lie? But why would it be betrayal to borrow the object she was safeguarding for him when she needed it? Or was she afraid to call back Charity; was she afraid to see her again? What if she appeared in the way Draco had seen her last?

That was cowardice. She did not consider herself particularly brave, but there were moments when one just had to be daring – she might never forgive herself if she gave up this opportunity just out of fear or some misguided, conventional scruple. Using the Stone had sounded so easy when Severus talked about it… She did not even notice any more how she was still clinging to the words of the 'liar', though she rejected the idea of asking him directly again.

"Charity," she said aloud, as if rehearsing how she would call out her name.

"Healer Burbage…"

She put down the Stone immediately as though she had just been caught red-handed. Draco was standing at the door, still scared and quite unusually humble.

"I'm sorry," he said awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other.

But Irene felt no compassion this time, only annoyance at being disturbed in such a moment.

"Sorry for what?" she asked coldly. "For feeding my aunt to a snake?"

Draco's face turned now white, so white that, for a second, Irene thought he was going to faint.

"Not me…" he mumbled, "it was the Dark Lord… _he_ let his snake do it…"

"With how many people watching?"

"I can't tell," Draco replied guiltily, "Death Eaters…"

"Your father and mother, too?"

Draco hesitated before answering.

"Yes."

"S-Severus?"

Draco nodded.

"And many others," he added truthfully.

"A whole group of men watching as a dead woman's body was desecrated in such an abhorrent way! Did no one object? _No one_?"

She uttered the words almost hopefully as though willing the boy to tell her that _one person_ had at least tried to do something, but Draco shook his head.

"One word, just one glance of criticism or doubt, and they would have been dead, too. You didn't question what the Dark Lord was doing. Everyone was afraid."

"Afraid," she repeated with bitter disappointment. "Afraid! What a bunch of cowards…"

She expected Draco to go away, but the boy was still standing and staring.

"My granddad wouldn't have let it happen," he said defensively, insisting on the last remaining illusion of his family pride, "if he had lived to see it all, he would have sooner died than allow his house and his room to be turned into a place where such horrors were possible-"

"His house!" she screamed, outraged. "His room! How inconvenient! Don't you realize it's my aunt you're talking about? Your granddad wouldn't have cared either, except that his house was in a mess!"

Fury made her careless, and she did not know any more whether she was talking to the cowering boy or to someone else.

"Would you have the courage to see Charity again? Would you have the courage to ask _her_, not me, for forgiveness?"

She rose from the chair and raised her palm with the Resurrection Stone, like a sacrificial offering, on it. She knew nothing about Occlumency, and her mind lay bare and defenceless against the horrifying image of Charity's dead body being eaten by the snake, which she saw as clearly as Draco and Severus, too, must have seen it in reality and in haunting nightmares. She turned the Stone between her fingers once, then twice, and then suddenly she was groping for support, as her knees failed her. The hideous vision in her mind was temporarily veiled by the darkness that fell.

She did not see Draco creeping into her room, kneeling down by her, his pale face once again reddened by his temperature going up. She did not see the boy's tentative helping hand stop halfway towards her, nor did she see the same hand slowly reach for the Stone that was lying silently and seductively just an inch away from him…

* * *

><p>"What's that?"<p>

Snape tensed up and Harry Potter wheeled round to turn in the direction of the hospital, where something was obviously - _happening_. Potter had no time to wonder how it was possible for Snape to draw a _wand_ (or something similar anyway) – he drew his weapon, too, and a moment later they both were running towards the ominous noises, just as they had done once, years before, at Hogwarts, on the day Professor Trelawney was sacked by Dolores Umbridge.

"Alohomora!" Potter shouted, and they raced inside the building.

They were greeted by a jet of light flying towards them across the corridor.

"PROTEGO!"

Simultaneously, two Shield Charms shook the place, their force sending the attacker – Mrs Primrose – onto the floor.

"Merlin's baggy pants!" Potter cried out and ran to help the old witch up. "What's going on here?"

"I don't know," panted Mrs Primrose. "The way you came in… what was I supposed to think?"

Mrs Primrose's confusion matched the more general confusion round her. Tanner lay flat on his back, with eyes wide open, shaking violently and giving out terrible sounds. There was a thin streak of blood on his forehead. Draco was crouching in a corner, hot with fever, and howling with either fear or rage, his voice hoarse with overexertion.

Snape took in the scene with one sweeping glance, and made his choice instinctively. He went to Draco, and picked him up from the floor.

As soon as the boy felt Snape's grip on his arms, he stopped howling.

"You tell me what this is," Snape hissed and dragged Draco into the nearest ward and shoved him onto an empty bed.

"Granddad," Draco moaned, reaching in vain for an invisible hand. "They're gone… all of them… Malfoys and Blacks… Gone… Not… coming back…"

These were all the words that Draco pronounced more or less comprehensibly, and they explained nothing. His cheeks were ablaze with fever, and he was shivering again.

Mrs Primrose and Potter came in, supporting Tanner, who was too weak to stand on his own.

"It's over now, Mr Tanner," the nurse said soothingly. "We need some Calming Draught here," she added in a different tone, addressing Snape.

He went to fetch the required medicine wondering where Irene was. Could she be simply asleep, not even hearing the commotion, which had taken place at some distance from her room? He picked up a bottle of Cooling Potion as well, to give Draco a few drops while Mrs Primrose was treating Tanner with the Calming Draught. Draco swallowed the medicine without protest. Not that he had a choice. Snape simply forced his mouth open and poured the potion in.

Tanner stopped shaking and to some extent regained his composure.

"What happened?" Potter asked, businesslike, aurorlike, with the routine of a professional.

"I heard a noise," Mrs Primrose explained, "and I went to investigate. I had got there just minutes before you… I thought something had attacked Mr Tanner and the boy. I tried to approach first Mr Tanner, then Draco, but neither of them let me touch him. "

"Was anyone else hurt?" Snape demanded with nervous apprehension.

"I didn't notice anyone else. I wonder … is it possible that they both had a vision… the same one at the same time?"

She glanced anxiously towards Draco.

"No vision," Tanner growled, "I couldn't see… or hear anything unusual... I only felt it. The Malfoy boy had seen something… talked to it. He was behaving oddly when I found him. I asked him what he was doing so far away from his ward. The scoundrel threw something at me… a small, hard object…and then… I could feel it happen."

"What did you feel?" Potter inquired.

Tanner closed his eyes.

"It was awful," he said, and with this he seemed to have finished all verbal recollections of the incident.

Mrs Primrose was still tending to Tanner. Potter was standing at the door, watching out both inward and outward. Draco had buried his face in a pillow, and was apparently suffering from small, periodic convulsions. Snape hesitated; in his estimation, Draco was in need of treatment at least as much as the guard; although he supposed personnel took priority over convicts. He had no idea how such convulsions had to be treated, but at least he would look at the boy more closely.

Realizing that he had perhaps manhandled a hospital patient in an unnecessarily rough way and that Irene would hardly be impressed if she knew, he turned Draco round in a gentler manner – only to find himself staring into the tear-stained face of the boy, whose sobs had been completely silent. He was ready to let go of Draco immediately, but Draco caught hold of his wrist and pulled him with such force that Snape remained bending over the bed.

"Please…"

Draco whispered the word he had never said in any other way but in a calculated sort of politeness, never sincerely, never really meaning it as much as he meant it now.

"Please, tell her… because I can't… that I didn't want her to die… will you? She's very upset…"

Unlike Draco, Snape was aware of Potter watching them in the background, and he could do nothing but glower down at Draco, who kept clutching while the words were pouring from his lips like rainfall.

"I have bad dreams… no one can understand what it's like to have them… The snake… Professor Burbage was her aunt… Did you know? You were there, too… you must tell her how awful it was… Tell her that I… I regret… _everything_."

It was like waking from a dream when the true meaning of the boy's words registered finally. He put his free hand on Draco's clutching one in an attempt to free his wrist, but Draco's grip proved surprisingly strong and did not release him.

"I'll tell her," he began reasoning in a subdued voice. "She will understand… I promise," he added, and he managed to sound reassuring, although he himself doubted he could be as good as his word this time.

Draco, however, believed him. His grip loosened, and he did not mind at all when Snape's place by his bed was taken over by Mrs Primrose. Snape hurried past Potter, out of the ward and towards Irene's private room.

Irene was sitting curled up on the floor. She had heard some distant noises but she was unable to get up. She knew she had lost something important that had been entrusted to her – but she still saw Charity's dead body ripped apart by a huge snake, with human beings watching the scene idly; and she felt the image was draining all her physical, mental and magical power.

She remained unresponsive when Snape entered. She did not react when he took her into his arms and led her into the adjoining small bedroom and made her lie down. He brought her a goblet of potion, which she drank up, and then he sat by her caressing and cuddling her as though she was a small child. She had already fallen asleep when he began murmuring words of endearment that had never before left his lips, not even on the snowy-warm Christmas nights of their love-making and not even in blessed dreams where one could be so much bolder than in reality.


	35. Of Secrets and Lies

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 35**

_Of Secrets and Lies_

He was roused by a knock on the door. For the third time within twenty-four hours, it was Potter.

"Be quiet," Snape said. "She's asleep."

He closed the door of the small bedroom and looked at Potter wearily. He was not eager to talk to anyone. But Potter obeyed the instruction to be quiet to the extent that he did not even say a word. He merely stepped to the table, and silently placed a small, black object on it. The Resurrection Stone.

Snape gaped at the Stone first, then at Potter again. The connection between Charity, the snake, Draco's confused confession and Irene's shock was becoming clearer.

Still, there was another, at the moment seemingly more urgent observation that his mind had to address and cope with. Although he was yet to learn where Potter had stumbled upon the Stone and how exactly it had got out of Irene's drawer and into Draco's hands, one thing was perfectly certain: Potter had not only recognized the Hallow, but he had also guessed, without being told, yet without doubt, that, of all the people in the camp, the Resurrection Stone could only belong to Severus Snape; and that was the reason why Potter had brought it to _him_.

"_I_ asked Irene to safeguard it," he answered Potter's unspoken question. "Whatever happened, it's not her fault. She's in shock right now."

Potter took a step away from the Stone.

"The dead are best left to rest in peace," he said. "This is a dangerous thing… Dumbledore could tell."

"I came across it by chance," Snape replied, "in a handful of Hogwarts soil. I did not look for it."

"Of all the Hallows, I only dared to keep the Invisibility Cloak," Potter said. "I used the Stone only once."

"You used it all the same… and everyone knows you are the master of the Elder Wand."

"It may not have been a good idea to let everyone know… but it was necessary to destroy the myth Riddle had weaved around himself. I saw no other way then."

"I see no other way _now_," Snape retorted, "though I can tell the difference, of course… You were saving the country… or the world… I'm only trying to save myself, which may or may not be a worthy cause… Not that it matters any more."

"Dumbledore's own words," Potter mused. "Is _that_ what you meant? To call Dumbledore back from the afterlife when you are in front of the Wizengamot?"

"I thought Dumbledore owed me that much," Snape replied fiercely. "I know he vouched for me once, but I would deserve it this time round more than I did then!"

He was aware of a false ring in his voice. Dumbledore could not be in debt, not to _Severus Snape _at least; or, if he had ever been, the debt would have been amply paid off by the inherited Pensieve – and that last message of Dumbledore's fatherly love. He had received everything from Dumbledore, everything his new life after the first war had been built on. He had received that new life itself from Dumbledore, as surely as he had received the old one from his biological parents. With that last request, Dumbledore had only taken back his own gift. Dumbledore owed him nothing, nor did he owe anything to Dumbledore any more. Any parental and filial affection that might have existed between them had remained a timid secret on both sides; and Snape was not wise enough to tell whether it was the existence or the lack of such bonds that made it possible for one person to ask another one to kill him.

"I wish you had mentioned it to me," Potter said sourly. "I could have told you at once. "

Snape bit his lip and swallowed his response. He had never thought that a former student of his, still fresh out of school, would be able to teach him anything about magic.

"Tanner was able to feel something at least," he pointed out, merely for the sake of an argument against the obvious.

"Perhaps," Potter replied. "But it would be impractical having to hit every single member of the Wizengamot on the forehead with this thing; just so they could – perhaps - _feel _Dumbledore's presence."

"I don't know if I wouldn't like it though," Snape said dryly.

Potter responded with a faint, wistful grin.

"It wouldn't help."

"You don't suppose the members of the Wizengamot could interview Dumbledore one by one?"

"_We are part of you. Invisible to anyone else_," Potter murmured.

Snape stared at him hard, and Potter sighed.

"Sirius told me that when I saw him and others with the help of the Resurrection Stone. Meeting one's dead is a private matter, at least as private as recalling one's memories. Giving the Stone to the Wizengamot would mean losing our control over an important piece of evidence."

Snape gave no reply. He did not need a lecture from Potter to understand that even if Dumbledore chose to grant his request, such a witness would be visible to _him_ alone, and thus worthless in front of the Wizengamot. Why had he not guessed it before, without Draco's dubious helping hand?

"Does anyone know it is yours?" Potter asked, bringing up another aspect of the problem.

Obviously, for a convict to possess an object of such magical power was a far more serious offence than drinking a few bottles of butterbeer. It was an offence an auror could ill afford to overlook.

"Irene does. And now you. I realize – what it means."

"Perhaps," Potter suggested, ignoring the last remark, "she could claim it is hers."

Snape was considering the idea. It might have been the perfect solution… some other time. Not now, however.

"No," he said. "That won't do."

Potter ruffled his hair.

"The problem is that Draco knows about it. He's a born troublemaker and he will eventually tell Tanner… or someone else. It will be traced to Irene."

"I won't hide behind her!" Snape snapped indignantly.

"The Stone will be taken away from you then. It will pass from hand to hand… I don't like the idea. It's a dangerous object and a source of great temptation if its power is known."

"They can't take it away if it is lost," said Snape. "It must have been Draco who handled it last, and if he lost it, who can help it?"

"They'll be looking for it."

"I will hide it – if you are sure you don't want to report it."

Potter eyed him curiously.

"How many other things are you hiding?"

Without completely suppressing a smug smirk, Snape reached into his pocket and showed Potter a piece of wood with a burnt tip.

"A do-it-yourself wand," he explained. "It is only a question of practice… and magic."

"Let's hope no one noticed it in your hand in that commotion," Potter said when he found his tongue. "It would be the last thing you need before the second trial. In a few days, it won't matter much, but at the moment it does."

Snape fidgeted with the substitute wand. Potter was indeed a determined rule-breaker; but it was still astonishing how the hero of the wizarding world was willing to break rules for _his_ sake.

"Why don't you take the Stone?" he asked abruptly. "I don't need it. If anything were discovered, you could say you have confiscated it, as an auror should. Shacklebolt will understand why you wouldn't reveal it to the camp authorities. Such an object must be safeguarded in a secure place. You may take this stick, too, if you like. It's nearly used up anyway. I'll have to make a new one."

"I might take the Stone," Potter conceded a little gruffly, as though Snape had given him a heavy burden to carry. "But saying I have confiscated it would amount to acknowledging that I have found it in the wrong hands."

"There's only so much you can do for me," Snape replied indifferently. "I am able to look after myself."

"You surely are. Er… convicts don't usually possess so many magical objects – including weapons – in this heavily guarded prison, do they?"

"On the contrary, most of them have their own personal magical power stolen from them."

"But you?"

Snape did not respond; Potter, however, needed no verbal answer to understand him.

"You'd better be acquitted," he muttered. "They will find you are running this camp if you get to spend another year here."

Snape was still silent and Potter took off his glasses and cleaned them meticulously before speaking again.

"I visited Hogwarts at Christmas, and I had a few words with Dumbledore's portrait. He asked me about you."

"Be careful," Snape warned him. "You must think twice before following the advice of a portrait on a wall."

"Are _you_ saying that to me?" Potter demanded. "_You_ of all people?"

"I'm speaking from experience," Snape answered. "Don't forget the responsibility is yours, not his."

"Well, he said little and it was sort of cryptic. I can't figure out what he meant."

"What did he say?"

"_What Severus needs from you, Harry, is exactly what you need from him. There need not be any more debts between you_."

"Is that all?"

"His exact words."

Snape threw up his hands in mock despair.

"What do I need from you, Harry Potter? A vow that I've been on the Light side all through this war? Naturally, I'd be happy to return such a vow and vouch for you – but I don't see how you would _need_ it."

Potter gazed at the fireplace as though the solution could be deciphered among the flames.

"I know what I need from you – but you hardly need the same from me."

Instinctively – and perhaps rudely – Snape turned away. He had almost – almost - forgotten what Potter craved.

"Obviously," he said over his shoulder. "It would be rather counterproductive, wouldn't it?"

"Never mind it then," Potter said hastily. "Do you think we should postpone the trial?"

"There would be little to gain by that," Snape replied, turning back to Potter. "I won't have any more evidence in a month or half a year."

He stared at the door behind which Irene was sleeping, pondering something.

"As you know, there is only one last thing I can fall back on if I want to keep my promise. Although I was hoping it would never come to that, certain things have changed since the last trial, and I am more willing to submit to necessity today than I was then. I have one more magical gadget that I can use - but I shall not tax your patience by revealing more information of this kind. Suffice it to say that you are not the only one, Auror Potter, to have received a posthumous message from Dumbledore."

Snape felt no regret when Potter pocketed the Resurrection Stone. He stayed in Irene's room that night, sleeping a few hours in her armchair. He wanted to be there when she woke up.

* * *

><p>It was early morning when Irene stirred. Tousled and disgruntled, she found herself lying fully dressed on a bed still made, a blanket spread over her body, a cushion under her head. The gloomy sensation that something was painfully, hideously amiss in the world still held her in its grip.<p>

Snape was with her within minutes – perhaps expecting the same faint reassurance she had given him on New Year's night after coming to in his hut. But no reassurance came this time.

"Irene," he said, reaching for her hand.

She sat up.

"Have you been here all night?"

"I thought you might need me."

She was massaging her temples silently.

"Irene, what is the matter?"

She did not look at him.

"Please, Severus," she said, "I don't feel strong enough for this now. Send in Mrs Primrose. I need her."

Her intention could not have been made clearer; yet, he was standing there for another minute at least, torn between the desire to lock her into a strong, comforting embrace and affronted pride at being thus dismissed.

The tension grew with the silence until Snape could bear it no longer. He went to find Mrs Primrose and informed her that Irene was unwell and required her help.

"I'll go immediately," the nurse said, frightened by the grave expression on Snape's face, "if you can hand out the morning potions in the wards."

It took Snape some time to double-check what potion each of the patients needed, but he performed the task successfully. The wards were crowded since most of the employees injured in the fire were still in hospital. Alecto Carrow's special victim, Matilda Lestrange, was still without any memories. Tanner had also been kept in hospital by Mrs Primrose's caution, and he had developed a strange symptom since the night: He kept muttering to himself, occasionally raising his voice and driving his fellow-patients mad.

Draco's was the last ward that Snape visited.

"Did you tell her?" the boy demanded as soon as he saw Snape.

"Not yet," he answered. "As you no doubt recall, she is very upset and needs to rest."

Draco's face darkened.

"You could have tried at least," he said scornfully.

Snape did not like the tone.

"I'm doing what I can," he replied frostily. "But it would help if you recounted what happened exactly."

He waited again, just like a while before in Irene's room, and this time he was rewarded with an answer.

"We… talked," Draco began reluctantly. "I told her … things." He paused. "I never talk to anyone these days, do you know?" he continued defensively. "I don't remember how, but we began talking about _him_, and she mentioned Professor Burbage, and she said she knew how she had died, and I told her how awful it had been with the snake and everything, and then she grew all white, and… ran out."

Snape gave Draco a prolonged look.

"That's not all", he said. "Something more happened."

"I went after her," Draco confessed. "I only wanted to explain, but she was very angry that none of us had bothered to protest when the snake…"

The boy could not bring himself to finish the sentence.

"You were there, too… You must remember what it was like… he already hated my family… Why, he was mean to Aunt Bellatrix, too. You were sitting on his right, and not even you could have stopped him. Not even _you_ dared to try."

So that was it. Irene was accusing him of indifference or cowardice. And he still did not know the full story, he still had to dig deeper…

"I am aware of the circumstances of Charity Burbage's death," he said evenly. "I want to hear what happened last night."

"She fainted," Draco whispered. "But first she … she told me I should ask Charity for forgiveness, not her. She had something in her hand, and I was scared she might do something terrible, and when she fell… _that thing_… was on the floor, and I thought … I'd hide it."

"You left her there unconscious," Snape summed up the rest, "and stole something from her."

"It was a small piece of stone," Draco breathed, and Snape had to lean quite close to him to hear the words properly. "I knew it was magical… I didn't want it to do anything… anything."

Black eyes bored into Draco's grey ones. Snape remembered that the boy had learned Occlumency from his aunt, but suspected that he did not have the power – or the will – to use it any more. He was right.

"You are afraid of magic," Snape stated.

Draco made no effort to deny it.

"I have no wand… They make me drink Control Solution… It's awful… I feel so powerless, and those with wands can do as they please. I live like a Muggle."

"But you had enough power to attack Healer Burbage when you got hold of a wand," Snape replied sternly.

"That's because I should have received the potion this past week, but I didn't. The magic has come back and it makes me… tense. I want to use it and I don't want to use it at the same time."

Snape knew that, unlike her colleague, Irene was not particularly keen on Control Solution, and with the holidays and the absence of Healer Sharp, she had had enough other things to do, therefore she might have overlooked the doses due that week. The return of Draco's magical power had coincided with the Imperius Curse, which further complicated an already very tense situation. All in all, Draco was now afraid of magic regardless of whose magic it was.

"What did you do with that stone?" he asked.

"I only wanted to hide it. But Tanner discovered me, and he was asking questions, and I didn't want him to find the stone in my hand… I have no idea how it happened, but I saw my grandfather… Abraxas Malfoy… and others of the family, people who are dead. They seemed both real and not real… like… behind a veil. They may have been angry… I don't know if they actually said anything. I was afraid and I think I shouted and… tossed the stone away and it hit Tanner on the head, and he began behaving in a strange way… and my grandfather and the others… vanished. It was ghastly."

Just recalling the memory gave Draco a terrified look.

"They'll think I attacked Tanner on purpose," he muttered. "But I didn't. And I didn't mean to rob Healer Burbage… I was just confused."

Draco's fear of retaliation was well-founded. Even if he was not found guilty officially, he could expect a difficult half year – and he could count himself fortunate if he walked free at the end of those six months.

"Last night you told me you had bad dreams," Snape said after a few minutes of contemplation. "What sort of dreams are they?"

"About… _him_."

"Do you sometimes relive real events in your sleep?"

"Often," Draco whispered. "Did he ever… _torture_ you?"

Snape glared at the boy as though Draco had hit him. There were personal experiences in Death Eaters' lives that had traditionally been avoided in polite conversation, and Snape had always followed this code of conduct like anyone else.

"One could hardly be with him for years and avoid it altogether," he answered at last.

Perhaps not even Draco had expected such a degree of sincerity, because he gaped at Snape for a long moment. Snape assumed an expression of nonchalance. It was all the same now – Draco could think what he wanted, he did not care.

"Do you not dream about it?"

"Rarely," Snape replied laconically. Then, after a pause, he added, "I more often see _others_ being tortured. Those are bad dreams, too."

"You _do_?" Draco's eyes opened wide. "I thought it was only me."

"Perhaps even your dad," Snape said slowly, "would have nightmares if he didn't drink himself unconscious every night. He certainly had a rough time of it."

"He deserved it!" Draco snapped. "He let me down… He brought me up to be a Death Eater!"

He sat up in the hospital bed.

"I wonder what sort of friendship was between you two..."

"Ah… that." Snape's lips thinned a bit. "Whatever there could be between a rich pureblood teenager and a poor half-blood kid, five years his junior."

"Just as I thought," Draco said with a sneer. "Did he do anything for you?"

"He introduced me to the Dark Lord."

"Put in a good word or two for you, didn't he? I'm sure you are still grateful."

Suddenly the boy's openly insolent expression turned suspicious.

"Were you really Dumbledore's spy?"

Snape nodded.

"Why have you been sentenced then?"

"It was a secret mission. No one knew, except Dumbledore. We couldn't risk the Dark Lord finding it out from anyone. And Dumbledore is dead."

"_You_ killed him!"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because Dumbledore asked me to do it."

Draco laughed out loud, but the laughter was forced.

"What a mad pair you were! It's a tale the Wizengamot will never believe and Potter is wasting his breath! I guess you're sorry now!"

Snape thought of the boy's words for a few seconds; then he shook his head.

"No, I'm not. You met the Dark Lord yourself. Someone had to stop him."

"It was Potter who stopped him!"

"Potter needed my help. Hogwarts needed me, too."

Snape was saying exactly what had been his unshakable belief once. That belief had been considerably shaken since the end of the war, but now, with a magical painting of Hogwarts on his wall, with his name in Dumbledore's will and with Potter's unwavering support behind him, he felt he stood on solid ground again, ready to defend the purpose, the necessity, the _inevitability_ of what he had done. Draco Malfoy's thoughts, however, wandered in a different direction.

"Aunt Bellatrix always said we shouldn't trust you."

"She had a sharp eye for traitors. The Dark Lord, however, regarded me as his most faithful servant, and it was more than anyone's life's worth to tell it to his face that he was being made a fool of."

"If he had found you out, you would have been sorry you had ever been born."

"But he did _not_ find me out."

"And what did you achieve as Dumbledore's spy?"

"I was instrumental in spoiling some of the Dark Lord's most important plans and I provided him with information Dumbledore wanted him to have. I protected the teachers and the students of Hogwarts, although I admit I wasn't able to always save everyone. I gave Potter secret help… and vital information."

Draco seemed unimpressed.

"You didn't get much out of it in the end."

Snape shrugged.

"That is beside the point."

"How can it be beside the point?"

Snape was pacing the ward. There were things that were as alien to a Malfoy as vegetarianism to a lion, and yet, he was trying to explain one of those very things to Draco.

"Some died in the war. Some were injured. Some lost loved ones or property. I laid my life on the line, just like others, and I have to bear the consequences, too."

"You fared worse than most," said Draco with ruthless sincerity. "Twenty years here must be worse than death. And you'll get no credit for what you did."

Privately knowing the uncomfortable truth was one thing. Having it flung into one's face was quite another. Snape could have been angry, he could have been shocked, he could have reacted with bitter denial or equally bitter admission, yet he remained calm, as though the person being discussed were someone else, a complete stranger.

"You don't understand. I was fighting for a purpose, not for a reward. I always knew it might come to this," he replied quietly. "I didn't have much time to ponder it… but I knew."

"Are you satisfied?"

That was again a question to give some thought to.

"With my own life – no. Naturally. With my achievement in the war – perhaps. It is difficult not to feel that one could have done better. But I believe I can say that I lived up to the most important expectations."

"Whose expectations? Dumbledore's?"

"Yes. And my own."

Draco made a short, disparaging sound.

"I don't see how anyone can agree to such a job voluntarily."

"Someone had to do it."

"And it had to be you."

"Yes. It had to be me."

"Because of Potter's mother?"

The question was openly provocative, and the old shield of inscrutability fell over Snape's face before Draco could catch a fleeting glimpse of an emotion there.

"We were talking about your bad dreams," Snape said after a period of silence. "What your father has resorted to is only creating more problems for him. You should be smart enough to seek a different solution. The bad dreams are symptoms only. You should address the malady."

"I can't change the past," Draco said morosely.

"You can try to dwell on the past less and start planning a future. Your father raised you to be a Death Eater, as you say. But now that you are grown and know that it was wrong, you can attempt to raise yourself anew. It won't be easy but this work could keep your mind off the past at least."

"I will always be a former Death Eater."

"They will cut you some slack because of your age. But it is not the opinion of the world I'm speaking of. It's your mind. That's where the changes must take place first. Be thankful you didn't kill and didn't rise to power in the service of the Dark Lord. I won't deny that it's a difficult way to start your adult life. No one knows it better than I do, but there it is. You have months to make your plans. Use them well. Prepare yourself for the day you leave this place."

"_Anything_ can happen until then …"

"Then be prepared for anything."

Draco spent a few moments gazing at Snape as though observing him; then his head fell back on the pillow.

"I don't understand why you are interested in my life. Perhaps your conscience troubles you. All that you've just told me… is it the truth or only a different set of lies? The greatest actor of the House of Slytherin, that's what you are, Snape."

He had to bear that, too, as one of the consequences of his former choice, just as he had explained to Draco a few minutes before. There was no denying that the boy's distrust was justified. It was ridiculous to feel hurt when someone who had fallen so low tried to bite him. Then again, it was not a matter of decision what one might feel. That would also be true in the case of a more important conversation, which he was going to have with Irene.


	36. The Restorative Remedy

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 36**

_The Restorative Remedy_

That conversation, however, did not take place soon.

Draco was still staring at the door that had closed after his former professor, when he was already looking for Mrs Primrose. He wanted to speak to her before seeing Irene.

Mrs Primrose was nervous. When Snape inquired after Irene, the nurse explained that she thought Healer Burbage had suffered a nervous breakdown (no wonder, since she had been really overworked recently), and she had to rest. Oh, no, she would be well in a week or two (by the way she needed a special potion, although Mrs Primrose could not and Healer Burbage would not say what it was exactly), but, until then, the hospital was without a healer (Healer Burbage must not do any work for a couple of days at least) and Mrs Primrose was just about to talk to Mr Grey about the situation. She thought a substitute healer had to be requested from St Mungo's urgently. One simply could not take a risk with so many people in the camp. At the moment, Healer Burbage was sleeping.

It was Sunday, and Snape had already spent half of the weekend in the laboratory (it had been necessary, since all those patients needed their medications). Apart from that, he had hardly slept at night, he had not eaten anything that day yet, and he was still wearing his clothes of the day before. Still, he had another job to do – he knew now that Irene had suffered a shock and he wanted to make a potion for her.

While Irene's potion matured, he went back to his hut and he returned to the hospital a few hours later carrying, under his cloak, a small parcel wrapped in simple paper - the phoenix-shaped silver candlestick with a magical candle, which he had received from her at Christmas. It was a good thing his fellow convicts did not suspect he could have such valuable possessions hidden in his hut – and he took care that no one should see the silver object in his hand.

No sooner had he entered the hospital than he saw Mrs Primrose hurrying towards him.

"Where have you been?" she cried anxiously. "You are needed here!"

Snape thought some catastrophe must have happened, but he found it was only the usual life in the hospital. Mrs Primrose was busy and apparently very reluctant to start a treatment entirely on her own; and, Snape being the only other active person present who was in some way connected with the healing profession, she looked to him for reassurance as well as for actual help.

"I must see Irene first," he said.

"Not now," she replied. "You couldn't stay with her anyway. You have other things to do."

"I have just prepared a potion for her… for the shock."

Mrs Primrose eyed him curiously.

"Then you knew she had had a shock before I did," she said. "You'd make a good healer. At any rate, Healer Burbage says I can depend on you. If you give me the potion, I'll take it to her."

"Why can't I -?"

Mrs Primrose lowered her voice.

"She does not want to see anybody. It seems the shock has affected her magic."

Snape looked at her aghast.

"Why haven't you told me before?" he demanded. "I must make another potion for her then!"

"It can wait," she replied. "She must rest now."

Snape glanced at Mrs Primrose's old, trembling hands and he wondered whether the witch was so afraid of staying alone with the patients that she was willing to prevent him from visiting Irene even for a couple of minutes or whether – perhaps - it was Irene's wish that he should stay away from her. Mrs Primrose gave no explanation, and Snape could not bring himself to ask for one.

In any case, it was true that they both had work to do. There had been a broomstick accident, the two victims of which (the camp shopkeeper and a visiting family member) had to be treated urgently. The other patients also needed to be looked after, and later Runcorn was brought in with various symptoms of the flu. Snape did everything in his power to assist Mrs Primrose and to honour Irene's promise to the nurse. Secretly, he even used the battered substitute wand, ignoring the danger he could put himself in.

Late in the afternoon he finally found the time to start brewing a potion called Restorative Remedy, which had the power to restore magic destroyed or weakened by a trauma. It was a complicated potion, at least as complicated as the Wolfsbane Potion (which he made every month now, just as he had done years before at Hogwarts, when Remus Lupin was still alive), and finishing it was going to take several hours.

In the meantime, he could not stop thinking about the newly developed situation with the distinct feeling that once again things were going the wrong way for him. Irene had been through a shock that might affect her feelings towards him; he had not been able to see her since early morning; and he had had to realize that his plan with the Resurrection Stone could never work, while the trial was only a couple of days away. Even what Draco had told him came back to haunt him. It was night when the potion was ready, and he went to Irene's door in case she was still awake – he wanted to give her the medicine as soon as he could. He was not even surprised when he found Tanner lurking nearby, but a hard stare from him was enough to make the guard go away.

Irene looked ill, and Snape could not suppress a feeling of guilt, in spite of all the arguments of logic and reason he was well aware of. He stood on the doorstep, handing the goblet of potion to her, waiting for her invitation to enter. Irene opened the door wider to let him in. He saw the Pensieve on her table.

"You must drink it immediately," he said, although Irene was a healer and hardly needed his instructions. "I'll bring you some more potion tomorrow. If you keep drinking it, your magic will be restored in a few days."

Irene nodded, thanked him and drained the goblet. Snape longed to touch her and to kiss her, but her gaze was so cold that it made him stop at a distance that one would keep from a stranger.

"I must apologise to you," she said. "It was a mistake to leave that stone in my care. It is gone. I'm afraid I'm a bad guardian of your secrets. It may not be a good idea to trust me with the Pensieve either."

Her voice was emotionless, and Snape glanced at the stone basin wondering whether the removal of his possessions from Irene's care was a symbolic act signifying that he had no place in her heart or life.

"Never mind the Resurrection Stone," he replied. "It isn't important. Draco… has told me what happened."

"He told me something, too."

"I know."

His tone was apologetic but she was not moved. Their gazes locked for several moments, unblinking and unyielding.

"Already at Hogwarts I tried to tell you," Snape said, "that I had no chance to save Charity's life. Nor was I able to prevent what happened when she was dead."

"Were you watching the… snake?"

"I had to watch."

"Yet, when I asked you about her, you told me she had been buried. I didn't realize then what you meant by it."

The accusation made his colour rise. He did not consider himself a liar – not more at least than the job of a spy had made it necessary, and still it was the second time that day that he had been reproached for insincerity… and why? Because of one of the many evil atrocities the Dark Lord (_the Dark Lord, not him_) had committed.

"Is it better now that you know it?" he snapped suddenly. "Does it make you happier? Does it help Charity?"

"No," she answered, "but I still… asked you. And you watched me look after the Malfoys, treat their illnesses and injuries and the old man's alcoholism with care and compassion, and never mentioned how they had stood by idly when my aunt's corpse was eaten by a snake!"

"Anyone who would have done otherwise," Snape pointed out, "would have had to be prepared to die along with her."

"I know, Severus, I know, but I can't help feeling that they did not care that much. It must have been a scary and gross experience, but did they mind anything beyond that? They may have felt sick thinking they could end up in the same way, but I doubt, I doubt very much that they felt bad about the murdered prisoner who was not one of them! It was my right to have this information about them!"

"And about _me_, I suppose," Snape replied, "because I was there, too. _Idle_, as you say. And I have paid dearly for it, I am being punished for it right now, and so are the Malfoys."

Irene turned even paler than she had been, and, for a moment, she seemed to hesitate.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked in the end. "Why did you lie?"

"Because you needed consolation, not another shock," Snape said. "It would have been sheer cruelty to tell you the full truth."

"What did it matter to you how I felt?" Irene asked. "In those days, I meant nothing to you."

Snape was silent. It was difficult to believe that there had been a time when he knew her and yet she meant nothing to him. He stepped to her table, pushed the Pensieve aside and took the candlestick with the magical candle out of his robes. He lit the candle with the substitute wand. That was the last piece of magic it was able to do, and Snape threw the charred little stick into Irene's fireplace.

Then he turned back to her.

"What other reason do you want to hear?" he burst out. "Why is it not enough that I tried to spare you some pain even though you were only my healer? Do you believe me incapable of acting on selfless intentions?"

Irene was staring at him, frozen.

"But perhaps you are right," he continued. "If you want the full truth, I will admit that I may have been ashamed, I myself may have been horrified – I still am when I recall my unavoidable dealings with the Dark Lord and his followers. I may have lacked the courage to make you face the full depth of the Dark Lord's cruelty and his absolute disrespect for all other life besides his own, of which I knew much more than I had ever wished to. Nevertheless, for what it's worth, you have my word that my main purpose was to save you from more pain, from meaningless, useless pain that would not have helped you or anyone else."

Impulsively, he picked up the Pensieve from the table and left. Irene did not stop him.

He felt too tired to go back to his hut, too tired to fall asleep even, therefore he simply returned to the laboratory, where, hurt and distressed, he gazed into the empty depth of the Pensieve. It reminded him of another job to do, and he was still in two minds whether or not to yield to the demands of the justice system. He abhorred the idea of being dissected, analysed and put on display like a dead animal in a laboratory while he was still alive enough to feel the pain of it. Without that, however, despite the testimonies Potter and his friends had gathered, the outcome might not be any better than before, and another guilty verdict would probably seal his fate forever.

It was time he got accustomed to seeing his own memories – not only in his dreams but when he was awake and alert. He had to prepare for the trial. He had to get used to re-watching his discussions with Dumbledore. Yet, from time to time, another memory stole into the fore of his mind, demanding his attention: the memory of Charity Burbage in the Malfoy Manor.

Eventually, he surrendered to the inevitable and plunged into the memory, without even trying to resort to Occlumency. The scene seemed chillingly real, and he had to fight off genuine terror and disgust to be able to keep watching and to keep focusing on the questions he wanted to answer truthfully. Was what he had done really the only thing to do? Could he be sure that, for cowardice or ineptitude, he had not failed to do something he could have done? Then and there, lifting but a finger to save Charity's life would have jeopardized Dumbledore's whole plan without any realistic hope of helping the Muggle Studies teacher who was being punished by the Dark Lord in the circle of his closest followers. Yet, could he have prevented – through cunning and dare – what was to befall her dead body? Would it have mattered once her life had been taken?

It would have mattered to Irene. But would it have been right to risk for _that _all that there was to risk – lives that could still be saved in future - when Charity was dead anyway?

Yet… in his place, Potter would surely have tried to do something. Ironically, James Potter's son had never understood the true extent of his own importance, he had never cared how many people had to give up their lives just to keep him alive, and he would have hazarded anything to save the single victim in front of his eyes. Which of them was right?

Both of them had been following Dumbledore's plan. It was the same plan that kept encouraging the hot-headed Gryffindor but kept telling _him_ - the greatest actor of the House of Slytherin, as Draco put it – to keep his cool and his cover, to play his part to perfection, to never jeopardize the greater good, cost what it may to him or to others. Dumbledore had treated the two of them differently, he had given them fundamentally different roles, and he had expected them to follow very different codes of conduct, and they had reaped very different rewards. In spite of that, they did not seem to be able to get rid of each other, as though the old man, with some perverse pleasure, had tied their lives together forever, so they could watch each other's glory and misery, respectively, as long as they lived.

Snape emerged from the Pensieve without any answers, without being any wiser but feeling a great deal more miserable than before. How could he ever have hoped that Irene's love for him – for _him_ - would last? What did it matter how he might fare in front of the Wizengamot on Tuesday if he lost what had given him the strength and the will to start this fight for justice in the first place?

It was quite dark in the laboratory, the candles had already stopped burning and he sat with his face buried in his hands. Perhaps it would have been a relief to be able to cry now, but his eyes were dry like the desert, as the promise of a new life that he had almost started to believe in suddenly appeared to be nothing more than a delirious illusion that no sane person would accept as reality.

He was in this state of mind when someone called him by his name.

"Severus."

He jerked his head up with the instinct of a wild animal sensing danger in its den. Irene was standing behind his back, holding the magical candle in one hand and her wand in the other. For a brief moment Snape thought she was pointing the wand at him, but her fingers opened, and the wand fell onto the floor. Snape picked it up for her, but she did not take it from him.

"I would like you to keep it," she said. "I… promised Mrs Primrose that you would help her with everything until the substitute healer arrived. This is at least a real wand. You will need it."

"You'll be better in a couple of days," Snape replied. "Perhaps sooner. Your magic will return."

She shook her head.

"It'll take a while."

Snape put the wand into his pocket. The very idea was a blatant violation of the most basic rules of the camp, but he would have done more if she had wanted him to. His work in the hospital would certainly be more effective if he used a wand.

"You were watching something," she said. "It upset you."

"I'm all right," he muttered.

He still did not know how things stood between them.

"Do you want to… share it with me?" she asked tentatively.

"No," he answered at once, horrified. "It cannot be shared."

Irene looked hurt, and, momentarily, it crossed his mind that she might understand better what he had tried to spare her if she watched the memory with him in full, but he knew he could never do it. He would never make her watch what had happened that day in the Malfoy Manor; he would never _allow _her to watch it… Not _that_ memory, ever.

"I see," she said. "Good night, Severus."

She was in the corridor when he caught up with her.

"Irene."

She stopped. The candlelight coloured her otherwise pale face.

"There is knowledge that is best not known," Snape said. "I have more than my fair share of it, believe me. I tried to protect you."

"I know," she murmured softly.

Snape reached for her hand and she did not draw back from him.

"Have you had dinner?" she asked unexpectedly.

"Not yet," Snape answered, surprised.

Now that he came to think of it, he realized he had not had lunch either.

"Nor have I," she said. "We can have dinner together – if you want to."

"You need to rest," he reminded her, inwardly struggling with himself, "especially while your magic is not what it should be."

Irene smiled.

"I have already prepared everything. I knew you wouldn't leave the hospital tonight."

The next day, on the last day before his new trial, Snape was carrying Irene's wand quite openly. He used it as a matter of course, as the most sensible and natural thing to do, and, indeed, the people in the hospital seemed to either approve of his actions or look the other way every time he performed a piece of magic. The flu was spreading, and he soon found himself performing the regular duties of a qualified healer. It meant great responsibility, and he could not afford to make a single bad decision, but the situation was somehow familiar, and he felt surprisingly at home in it. No one objected to being treated by him, as though he was already a free wizard and a true healer.


	37. The Ministry Again

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 37**

_The Ministry Again_

The substitute healer from St. Mungo's arrived late in the afternoon, and Mrs Primrose told Snape that he was free to leave if he wanted to. _Free_! The nurse did not notice how that word affected him. It was a word he did not want to hear just then. Not yet. Or not any more. He would see… he would soon see.

Mrs Primrose thanked him for his help, but it was easy to realize that he was not simply 'free' to go – he was _supposed_ to leave. The healer from St Mungo's was a newcomer, and Snape's presence, as well as any information about the role he had recently played in running the hospital, might be an embarrassment to the regular camp personnel (including Mrs Primrose). Snape understood the unsaid request in the nurse's words; so he locked the laboratory, hid the borrowed wand under his cloak and hurried to Irene, carrying a dose of potion he had just made for her.

The truth was that he himself was not particularly eager to be introduced to any strangers. ("_This is Severus Snape, a former Death Eater, murderer and currently our Potions expert. He will be with us for about fifteen years unless the wise members of the Wizengamot change their minds about him tomorrow._") Yet, being present without being introduced (like a piece of equipment), as the new healer was being shown round the wards, would have hurt his pride.

Irene did not look well. She was pale and weak, and although that was only natural when an illness affected one's magic, Snape felt worried. There were maladies potions could not cure. He was not at all a fully qualified healer, and although he always performed his tasks in a precise and conscientious way, being responsible for _Irene's_ well-being robbed him of his usual confidence in his own skills, and he felt pathetically inadequate when he thought that the remedy she needed might lie beyond his area of expertise. Irene made some obvious efforts to please him and to appear happier and stronger than she was in reality, but no white lie could deceive him.

It was in this mood that Percy Weasley found him. Weasley had just returned from his long holiday, and seeing Snape was one of the first things he did. Convicts were usually summoned by their supervisors, and Snape guessed that only a few days earlier he would have been summoned as well. It was a tribute to his new role in the camp that Weasley walked over to the hospital personally just to inform him – officially - that he was to appear in front of the Wizengamot on the following day. He would be escorted to the Ministry by a prison guard and an auror. (Weasley made it sound like a guard of honour.) He was to be ready to leave by seven o'clock and he was to report at the supervisor's office at the same time. Weasley also brought a message from Mrs Primrose to Irene that the newly arrived healer was coming to see her in a few minutes.

"Tomorrow then," Irene said as Weasley left them.

Snape nodded. He had known it for days, yet it seemed somehow more real now that Weasley had announced it in his official manner.

"The new healer will be here soon," he muttered. "I hope everything will be all right.

"Don't worry about me. She's a very experienced and highly qualified healer. And I've been in excellent hands so far."

Snape let the compliment pass.

"I had better go," he said.

"Already?"

"I may stay a bit longer if you need me," he answered hesitantly.

She tried to smile.

"I thought you'd need _me_."

"I would make for very bad company tonight. And I must prepare…"

"Is there anything I can do? Any way I can help?"

He did his best to appear composed, and he gave her a light, quick kiss.

"No, no way. But it's all right. It's just that I'd rather be alone."

She squeezed his hand.

"Go then. The new colleague will probably have a lot of questions about the hospital, and Mrs Primrose will be coming, too. You'd be bored."

Snape did not seize this last opportunity to spend some time with the Pensieve. He welcomed solitude because he was significantly more nervous than he let on, and he did not want Irene to discover how much. Trying to look cool and confident for hours on end would have been exhausting. He had always been alone before, and he still had no idea how to share the period of waiting, the hours of growing anxiety before a decisive event. He had waited alone for his first trial as well, and no one had worried about him during his meetings with the Dark Lord. On the night the Dark Lord had regained his power and he had to start gambling with his own life in order to protect Potter's, he received encouragement from no one. Dumbledore had simply set the goals but never asked him how he was going to pull off the task or how he was coping with the stress.

Solitude had seemed natural _then_. Tonight, however, he was aware of a deep-rooted longing, a haunting wish to be with Irene, to feel her hand squeeze his hand again. What kept him from turning back and knocking on her door? Vanity? Pride? Insecurity? The night was long, and it was very late when he fell asleep, and he had bad dreams.

In the morning, he got up feeling more tired than the evening before. He still missed Irene, but he told himself it was too early to visit her, and he went straight to Weasley's office instead. Three people were waiting for him there: Weasley, the guard Jones, who was going to accompany him to the Ministry, and - Irene. She was even paler than the day before, and Snape suddenly realized that facing _her_ anxiety was more trying than facing his own. Although Irene was careful not to make his situation more difficult and assumed an expression of confidence and optimism, Snape saw right through her and knew she was afraid. He, too, only pretended to be brave and determined - and he was definitely the better actor of the two of them.

Since they were not alone, no particular intimacies were possible, except for a few words of goodbye. Irene gave him a small parcel with food and drink for the day (how did she guess he had not had breakfast?), and reached for his hand.

"The truth is on your side. Remember that," she whispered.

"I know," he replied, more in order to soothe her than out of conviction.

"I'll be waiting for you."

_How long was she prepared to wait_? The question remained unspoken, and the door of the Ministry's magical vehicle (disguised as a Muggle car) was locked securely behind him. Failure today would not only ruin _him_ but would also bring sorrow and disappointment to _her_ - and it was a sort of anxiety he had never encountered in his life before. If things should go disastrously wrong, the outcome of the trial might prevent him from ever seeing her again. He had not even asked how she was or what the new healer had said – how could he be so thoughtless?

He was travelling through unbelievable, surrealistic winter countryside, and the early morning darkness grew darker as the vehicle went underwater, and the journey across the bog began. It reminded him of the first crossing, little more than six months before, though it seemed ages now, so much had changed since then. More might change soon if only the present journey were not in vain… He peered into the darkness through the window as though he was trying to peer through the veil of future – something he had never been able to do. He had never been good at Divination. He hated Divination.

"We'll be on the other side in no time. It doesn't really take long."

The guard was talking to him. Snape glanced at the young man's round, baby-like face, wondering if Jones meant to encourage him, if the guard had the cheek to suppose he _needed_ encouragement while crossing a body of water in a magical vehicle.

"I don't care how long it takes," he replied coldly.

Of all the guards, Jones was the only one to whom he owed some gratitude (though he had never really _shown_ any) and it was still difficult to trust him.

"The destination is more important than the journey," Jones conceded reluctantly, as though the manner of Snape's response had offended him. "The Daily Prophet will be there and everything."

The riposte did not miss the mark, and Snape swallowed hard. If _that_ was the only kind of publicity his life could generate, he would rather not have any of it.

"I haven't read the Prophet lately," he said gruffly.

"Most people in the camp read it. But it always comes late."

"Since it seems you will be obliged to attend the trial," Snape replied sharply, "you won't need to rely on the Prophet's account of it. You can hardly complain."

"Don't you like the Prophet?" Jones asked.

Snape did not answer. He wondered on what basis they were conversing like that. A guard and a convict surely were not supposed to chat while one was keeping the other from running away! As a former student of his, however, Jones was discussing his personal life somewhat too freely.

"If you are found _not_ guilty," Jones continued, "it'll be nice having all your acquaintances find it out at once."

_If_ he were found not guilty… would an article in the Daily Prophet mean appropriate satisfaction for all the trouble and humiliation he had suffered? Of course, a lot would depend on how they chose to report the story… _a lot_…

"What does it matter to you," he burst, "what the Wizengamot will decide? What is that to _you_?"

"Healer Burbage is convinced you were sentenced by mistake," Jones answered gravely. "She wouldn't be your friend if she thought you were a criminal. She can't be wrong…"

Snape's eyes nearly pierced the young man.

It was still the same old story. Most people believed him only because of some other person, like Dumbledore before and now maybe Potter, and in this particular case – Irene. Would he ever have his own credibility?

"A former Death Eater may be able to deceive her," he said sardonically. "I wouldn't have scruples if I were a dark wizard, would I?"

Jones responded with a sharp, clear glance.

"If you deceived her, I would kill you."

Snape peered through the window once more. Now he understood why he could not like the guard, but it was still a mystery why the younger man had never used his position to harm him – and suddenly he felt something akin to respect and sympathy for this former student of his. If anyone, _he_ knew what unrequited love meant. It was still a novelty for him to be the more fortunate suitor. Jones might not be exactly the kind most girls dreamt about, but nor was he. Yet, Irene loved _him_.

Again, he was reminded of the trial and the worst possible scenario. If the Wizengamot found him guilty, they might perhaps reconsider the sentence and decide that the Dark Lord's right-hand man had been punished too lightly – and he might end up in Azkaban. Irene would not have to be alone for long - far from it… She could easily find a younger man, a free man, a man without all the burden and trouble he had.

He, in his stupidity, would have left without saying goodbye to her if she had not chosen to see him out - when they could have spent the night, perhaps their last night, together. Not that she would have found much pleasure in him. She would have found him a misery if he had been honest. No, he would much rather be remembered for the Christmas they had spent together if the worst came to the worst.

Neither the guard, nor Snape spoke more during the crossing. On the other side of the bog, they stopped to pick up the auror who was to travel with them. It was Potter. He sat down next to Snape, and Jones was tactful enough to retreat to the far end of the vehicle and let them have a final discussion before the trial.

"Professor Snape," Potter began, but Snape interrupted him.

"I'm not a professor at the moment, Potter."

"Professor Dumbledore always insisted that I should refer to you as _Professor_ Snape," Potter replied calmly.

"That was only common politeness and rightful respect at the time," Snape said in a rather teacher-like tone.

Their eyes met, and a minute of uncomfortable silence ensued.

They both remembered that Dumbledore had known exactly just how much respect was due to Severus Snape from the son of Lily and James Potter. His insistence on Snape's proper title might well have been regarded as a remarkable gesture, and Snape flushed with shame. He felt increasingly irritated.

"Recently I've been thinking about Dumbledore a lot," said Potter.

"You mean the enigma he gave you?"

"No, not that… About Dumbledore and _you_," Potter explained. "I've realized things … important things."

Potter hesitated.

"Dumbledore made you protect me," he went on cautiously, "but don't you think he has also made _me_ protect _you_? I mean _… _it is no accident that I've ended up helping you clear your name."

Snape did not respond, and Potter interpreted his silence – correctly – as permission for him to continue.

"Just look at the way he gave us tasks that ultimately... complemented each other."

"You mean I was the one who had to kill him," Snape retorted roughly, "and you were … everything else. We complemented each other as death complements life… as darkness and light complement each other. I played the role of death and darkness, while you had all the light… and life. Ingenious!"

He hit the window with his fist, and Jones jumped to his feet at the back of the car. Potter remained calm.

"It is more complicated than that," Potter pointed out. "We both faced death and protected life and we both fought against the Dark Side. What is more -"

"But I was the only one," Snape cut in, "who had to kill… who had to _kill_ _him_! I must live with that forever, regardless of what the Wizengamot might rule… _I_ was the disposable one… and I had no one but him!"

It was out at last. The truth no one could deny but no one had ever pronounced, either because it was too uncomfortable or because no one was interested, was out now, flung at Harry Potter, who was obliged to respond. But Potter did not even seem surprised.

"I know," he said pensively, gazing at the pale winter landscape outside. "I realize what it means to you. And I know why it is difficult to face your memories. Earlier … I didn't understand. Yesterday, Kingsley gave me a Ministry Pensieve to safeguard it until the trial and I tested it. I had never thought it could be so different… Dumbledore never let me know… You see, I had never viewed my own memories before, only the memories of others -"

"Don't… remind me," Snape grunted, and Potter fell silent.

The Ministry courtroom was full of people, and the crowd doubtless included a number of journalists. When Snape was led in, only the creaking of wood and the rustling of paper could be heard, and every head turned towards him. He had to sit in the already familiar chair of defendants, which uncompromisingly chained him. He briefly winced as he felt the cold iron press against his body, but immediately he steeled himself and then he stared ahead motionless as though he himself had frozen into some hard, cold material.

Potter entered a few minutes later and sat down next to Snape, a fact that was bound to excite further interest, a fact that would definitely be worth noting. Snape had not expected it, and when he glanced sideways, he saw that Potter was holding a Pensieve on his lap.

"Once I had a hearing, too," Potter said quietly.

Snape remembered. Dumbledore had managed to defend Potter despite his own reduced power and influence, but he also had a reason to keep away from the boy and was consequently convinced that Potter's feelings were hurt. Now Potter was sitting by his side, talking to him, showing his support for him in every possible way, apparently anxious to avoid Dumbledore's mistake, and yet, he was unable to feel anything – except, of course, the acute desire to be somewhere else.

The members of the Wizengamot were in their seats, and Snape saw Shacklebolt sitting in the middle of the first row. The Minister opened the trial, asking the council to pay attention to every detail and to consider every aspect of what might be a very unusual case in front of them. A council member summarized the history of the case and read out the charges of which Snape had been found guilty as well as the original sentence. It was a long speech, during which Snape desperately tried to think about Irene. But he heard the charges all the same, and the words hurt him as much as before.

Then Miss Granger entered the courtroom and presented the witnesses for the defence. They were young people who had been Hogwarts students during Snape's headmastership or parents of Hogwarts students who were considered too young to testify at the trial. Their combined account was a fairly realistic portrayal of Headmaster Snape. No miracles had happened while he was in charge of the school, and tortures had certainly taken place, but he had done everything in his power to protect the children. No one had been killed.

The Weasley girl, the Lovegood girl and the Longbottom boy also showed up to recount the story of the sword of Gryffindor, how and why they had tried to steal it from the Headmaster's office, how they had been caught by Snape and sent to the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid, as punishment. A Gringotts goblin testified that a fake sword had later been deposited in Madam Lestrange's vault, while Ron Weasley related how he had found the original sword in an icy pool in another forest and how he had saved his friend, Harry Potter, who was trying to retrieve it.

The prosecution, of course, doubted everything. The idea of 'safe punishment' proved nothing. Weasley could only say that he and Potter _thought _the sword had been placed in the pool by Snape but admitted that they had not realized it then. It was insinuated that even if one could prove that the sword had indeed been left there for them by Severus Snape, it would be no proof of his allegiance to the cause of the Light Side, since Harry Potter had nearly died trying to bring it up - an occurrence that would obviously have served the interests of the Dark Side.

Potter stirred.

"_Don't_," Snape hissed under his breath. "No point."

Potter slightly shrugged his shoulders. The Doe Patronus was to remain a secret then. He was sure such a detail would have created a good impression – but Snape was unyielding in his opinion.

Minerva.

Hagrid.

_Support-Harry-Potter_ parties.

Witnesses for the prosecution: students tortured by the Carrows (never by _him_), Death Eaters brought back from Azkaban and hoping to survive by drowning someone else. Familiar stuff.

Hermione Granger asking clever questions.

Snape feeling numb in the tight grip of the chains.

Then he had to stand up. The chains let go of him, and it was only with considerable effort that he managed to stand. The prosecution wondered whether Severus Snape had been a squeamish sort of Death Eater or whether there was any serious, creditable evidence that he had been acting in the interest of the Light Side.

Potter also rose when Snape did, and Summoned a small table, which stopped neatly in front of them. Potter put the Pensieve on it. Behind Snape, necks were craning and elbows were nudging. With the permission of the Wizengamot, Potter handed him a wand, and Snape held it to his temple and extracted a memory – only one – and let it fall into the Pensieve. He held the wand over the surface of the silvery, neither-gas-nor-liquid substance, murmured the spell, and watched as the three-dimensional scene emerged from the basin and grew until it was large enough for everyone in the room to see.

He was thinking of Irene again. He was doing it for her… he would never have done it for himself only.

Potter took the wand back from him, while in the enlarged, eerily true-to-life scene he was just receiving his summons from Dumbledore. He saw himself hurry to his boss and commander - _only boss and commander, nothing more_, he reminded himself, but his expression in the Pensieve-scene as he bent over the seriously injured old man belied the denial.

Only for Irene… she alone was worth it.

Snape in the Pensieve-image was saving Dumbledore's life.

Snape in the courtroom was gripping the edge of the table.

"_I am fortunate, extremely fortunate, that I have you, Severus._"

He had already forgotten that Dumbledore had said that. He had failed to properly prepare for this trial, despite the chance he had had, and this was the result. His lips whitened with the effort to stay calm. They must not see him break down. He doubted that even Irene could really understand what he was doing for her.

The discussion about the Dark Lord's plan and about Draco… then Dumbledore's request to him.

"_And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine_?"

Snape's living eyes bored into the image of the old man as though he was still expecting the answer he had not got then, but it never came, only Dumbledore's ultimate reasoning about pain and humiliation, and the promise that he had finally made…

Dumbledore thanked him, and the words were followed by a spell of uncanny silence broken at last by Shacklebolt's voice speaking to him.

"Is there anything you would like to add, Severus?"

He responded with a shake of his head. He had never been so badly prepared in his life, but even if he had known what to say, he might have been unable to say it. When he sat down, the chair chained him again. He did not care. Potter remained standing.

It was the prosecution's turn to speak.

"As we have seen, Dumbledore indeed ordered the defendant to murder him. We must not forget, however, that the same was the wish of the Chief Dark Wizard as well. The question is therefore this: Whose order was Severus Snape following in reality?"

"There can be no doubt about that," Potter replied at once. "When Professor Snape saved Professor Dumbledore's life, he certainly missed a great opportunity to oblige Tom Riddle. Why didn't he kill him, why didn't he just let him die, why did he rescue him? The answer is simple: Professor Snape was Dumbledore's man through and through!"

"All right," said the stout, stubborn wizard representing the prosecution. "He killed Dumbledore on Dumbledore's orders. But are we to condone murder in any shape or form? Does anyone have the right to kill just because the murder is requested or ordered by the victim? Dumbledore may have been a genius, but his word was not law. Killing a man is murder - that _is_ the word of our law. Are we to allow any wizards to regard themselves as exceptions? Can the Wizengamot afford to encourage crime on any pretext? Can the Wizengamot – or the Minister of Magic - set such a dangerous precedent in the current political situation? Our recent history is full of the most abominable types of crime, and it is our job to see to it now that everyone in our community – including Severus Snape - must observe the law or suffer the consequences."

The solemn, shocked silence was all forgotten. The wizard demanding a guilty verdict was an effective orator, and all of a sudden everyone began voicing their opinion, the members of the audience as well as those of the council, and in that cacophonous babel of voices, only one person remained silent – Severus Snape, who buried his face in his hands, exhausted and ready to give up. A divided audience might have been good news, and in comparison with the first trial, it was unquestionably an improvement. But the hostile words of accusation hit home more than anyone in the room could have imagined. He had no moral right to share his name with Irene while the label of murderer was attached to it, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing more, he could do to ever persuade the wizarding community to absolve him.

The Minister ordered silence, but the people took their time. Yet, when silence fell again, it was so deep and complete that Snape had to look up. He saw Potter standing by the small table, a single thin string of a silvery substance, like a gossamer thread, sliding gently from the tip of his wand into the Pensieve.


	38. The Unknown Potion

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 38**

_The Unknown Potion_

"Perhaps it is still a memory that you need from me, Professor," Potter murmured. "It's worth a try."

Snape stared at the emerging image. He saw a dark place faintly lit by a glow of greenish light, a place with a sinister atmosphere, a place bearing the hallmark of the Dark Lord's touch, which sent a shudder down his spine. The sensation told him, whatever Potter was going to show, he was not going to like it. Slowly, the picture zoomed in to focus on two people standing by a stone basin, the source of the greenish light. Dumbledore's wand was moving in complicated shapes over the basin, and when it was withdrawn, Snape heard Potter's voice.

"_You think the Horcrux is in there, sir_?"

So it was Dumbledore hunting for a Horcrux – with Potter. Was he teaching the boy, training him for his future task – or did he really _need_ the boy's company, his assistance? The Horcrux was guarded by a potion … and what had Potter ever known about potions?

"_I can only conclude that this potion is supposed to be drunk_."

Naturally. All potions were supposed to be drunk, but there were still other things you could do with a potion. If the potion came from the Dark Lord, you might want to take a sample of it and have it analysed to see how it had been made, to see whether there was a way to neutralize its harmful effect before giving it to someone to drink.

Snape did not expect an analysis to take place. If Dumbledore had wanted to have a dark potion analysed, he would certainly have turned to _him_. But Dumbledore had never brought him that sample…

In the Pensive image, Dumbledore was explaining the situation as thoroughly as though he had counted, from the beginning, on a future audience that would need explanation.

"_It might paralyse me, cause me to forget what I am here for, create so much pain I am distracted, or render me incapable in some other way. This being the case, Harry, it will be your job to make sure I keep drinking, even if you have to tip the potion into my protesting mouth. You understand_?"

Snape, in any case, understood. He was watching Potter in the Pensieve image, and knew why this particular memory was being shown to him. He had no idea how the verdict might be influenced by a piece of memory that was exclusively about Potter and Dumbledore, but he understood what Potter was trying to communicate to _him_.

Potter hesitated, Potter tried to object, but it was not so simple to say 'no' to Dumbledore. If anyone, Snape could tell that. Apparently, the boy had even been _sworn_ to complete obedience, a precaution Dumbledore had never found necessary in _his_ case.

Snape thought he had seen enough, but the memory scene continued, and the chains kept him tied to the chair…

Dumbledore downed gobletful after gobletful of the potion; then he staggered and fell forwards. Snape watched as Potter, revulsion and hatred etched in his face, took the goblet from Dumbledore's shaking hand and poured the rest of its contents down the old man's throat, exactly as Snape had poured a goblet of golden medicine down the same throat before. Then Potter refilled the goblet and – ostensibly pleading and coaxing, but in reality taking advantage of Dumbledore's helplessness – made him drink again and again.

Every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on the scene, where Dumbledore was now moaning and screaming and begging in pain, and the goblet kept approaching mercilessly.

"Stop it, Potter."

The boy did not seem to hear him.

"Stop it," Snape repeated, more loudly. "You have no right to expose him like this!"

This time Potter looked at Snape and shook his head without a word. The scene continued. Snape had seen Dumbledore, the real Dumbledore, half-dead, dying and dead, but this was something completely different. He had never, not even in that last moment, seen Dumbledore driven to despair, broken and afraid, pleading violently with an invisible foe, blaming himself for a mysterious crime.

"… _I know I did wrong, oh, please make it stop_ …"

Involuntarily, Snape gave a shiver.

"_Please, please, please, no … not that, not that, I'll do anything …_"

Snape had long stopped watching, but he could not help hearing. The word Dumbledore had just used triggered an influx of memories of his own, which blended with the image of Dumbledore shaking and screaming in pain, while Harry Potter was giving him more and more of the Dark Lord's potion … poison.

Snape was very close to begging and screaming himself. It was as though Potter had just exposed Dumbledore naked and with horrible open wounds to an audience excited by the sensational spectacle and revelling in Dumbledore's pain and humiliation. Pain and humiliation – the very things Snape had been supposed to save Dumbledore from, and now he seemed to be sharing them with the old man as no one else in the room could. What did Potter think he was doing? The indignation on Dumbledore's behalf was growing in him until he felt he would explode, breaking the chains and everything else that was there to restrict him, and while Dumbledore, in the Pensieve image, was desperately demanding death, Snape could not bear it any longer.

"ENOUGH!"

His effort to keep his cool had been wasted. So that was the story Dumbledore had never had a chance to tell. That was why Dumbledore had been so weak and helpless in the tower and that was how Dumbledore had known with absolute certainty that it was time to go. _His_ job had only been to finish what Potter had started… But it was nobody's business, it should have remained forever between Potter and himself how Dumbledore had chosen to die in the hands of his two closest allies, jealous rivals for his attention, recognition and love, and what it was like to watch him die then go on living and remember…

"It is all right, Professor Snape, _it is all right_…"

Jones, his former student, was standing by him, shielding him, to some extent, from craning onlookers. It was the guard's job to step in when a defendant became violent, but instead of directing a wand at him, Jones was handing him a goblet of water to drink. The water was from a jug on a table near the seats of the Wizengamot. But the goblet – _that_ was not from the Ministry. It was a goblet that Snape recognized. If he had not, he would have pushed goblet and hand away rather ungraciously. This goblet was usually kept in a cupboard in the camp hospital, and Snape had seen it in Irene's hands countless times.

"Healer Burbage instructed me to give you some water if you should be thirsty, upset or exhausted during the trial…"

The goblet in Potter's hand with the Dark Lord's poison in it… Irene's goblet handed to him with pure, clear water in it… He thought of the shock Irene had been through, of Charity Burbage and the snake… Irene had been able to anticipate, from so far away, that he would need her, and she had found a way to remind him, in a critical moment, why he was doing it all. He accepted the proffered goblet and slowly took a gulp. The water was to him what earth had been to Antaeus, the Greek half-giant; it gave him back his strength, just as the Dark Lord's potion had taken away Dumbledore's. He shot a glance of loathing at Potter before turning to the council.

"I apologise," he said with cold composure.

By then, the Pensieve image had disappeared.

"After that," Potter said, addressing the Wizengamot, "I took Professor Dumbledore and the object we had found in the cave back to Hogwarts. We did not know that the castle had been invaded by Death Eaters. Professor Dumbledore, who had become extremely weak after drinking the potion, wanted to see Professor Snape."

Potter put another memory into the Pensieve, and Snape watched himself cast the Unforgivable Curse. He was silently holding on to the goblet. At least Dumbledore did not suffer more, he died quickly and painlessly, just as he had wanted, at the end of a long life of which Snape, despite nearly two decades of close acquaintanceship, hardly knew anything.

"By sharing these memories," Potter continued, "I wanted to show you what it was like to work with Professor Dumbledore. As you have seen, just before his death, Professor Dumbledore gave me orders that in essence were not very different from the orders he had given to Professor Snape. We both obeyed, and we both believed that we had chosen the lesser of two evils, however painful those choices were. Professor Dumbledore had given us further tasks, tasks of vital importance, and he chose his own manner of dying to serve those purposes. On the one hand, it was his hope to track down and obtain one more Horcrux before leaving the rest of the hunt to me. On the other hand, he wanted to place Professor Snape in a strategic position to wield the greatest possible influence over Riddle and his gang."

Potter paused, and Snape had the impression that the boy, too, had to gather some more strength to be able to go on.

"I had friends to help me. Professor Snape's mission had to be kept secret from everyone. His only advisor was a painting on a wall – Dumbledore's portrait. In an extremely dangerous and stressful situation, Professor Snape fulfilled his duties to perfection. If obeying Dumbledore's orders was his only crime, then I declare myself an accomplice and demand to be judged by the same standards as Professor Snape!"

There was a wave of murmur behind Snape's back – then all of a sudden, a thundering round of applause filled the large courtroom.

Obviously, Potter could do no wrong.

"The Wizengamot," Shacklebolt said, "will retire to discuss the case."

Snape was led to a small, adjoining room, where, as Jones put it, he could 'stretch a bit'. Potter accompanied them, and as soon as the door was locked behind the guard, Snape rounded on him.

"How dare you –"

"I only did what Dumbledore ordered me to do," Potter snapped. "Do I have to explain?"

"Dumbledore never ordered you to expose his most vulnerable moments at a courtroom viewing!

"You mean _that_." Potter frowned. "I've done it for you."

"I didn't ask you to do it!"

"Dumbledore is dead -"

"SO WHAT?" Snape shouted. "Do you suppose it doesn't matter now? That's exactly what you did to _me_ when you thought _I_ was dead! What makes you think discretion ends with death?"

"It matters to _you_," Potter replied, "because you are alive. The living must live. Dumbledore would forgive me for choosing your interest instead of his."

"Forgive you? Forgive you for letting this crowd watch his pain, his humiliation, for letting such a genie out of the bottle? I can already see how the Prophet will jump at this chance… What will they make of all that begging and self-accusation? Never mind that he was under the influence of lethal Dark Magic that must have affected his mind!"

"There is a true story behind that, which has already been published. You can read about it in Rita Skeeter's book."

"That woman is an asp!"

"Granted, but this time the truth is juicier than lies. You can ask Aberforth!"

"_Ask Aberforth_! Of course! Shall I tell you what I will do if I ever get out of here?"

Snape broke off suddenly, glared at Potter, then, with a gesture of resignation, turned round. Not even in his fury was he prepared to utter what he would do if he were free, and he did not want Potter to see the despair in his eyes. Potter sighed.

"My purpose is to clear your name so you can be free and do what you wish to do," he said to Snape's back. "Now that it has been proved that you weren't a Death Eater, I don't want you to be sentenced as a simple murderer, as Dumbledore's ally who has overreached himself! I loved Dumbledore as much as you did and I wouldn't have shown this memory to anyone without good reason. Do you think it is easy for _me _to remember? You finished him off, all right, and it was the work of a second, but do you realize what _I_ did? Do you realize how many minutes it took?"

There was a period of silence, during which Snape slowly turned back.

"Dumbledore was doomed by the injury on his hand," he said quietly. There was no more anger or loathing in his voice. "He wouldn't have lived much longer."

"That was never the point, was it?"

Snape shook his head.

"You must have been tormented by the memory of it," he muttered.

Potter ruffled his hair.

"In the beginning – not very much. I had convinced myself that Dumbledore could have lived if things had happened otherwise in the castle. I had convinced myself that Madam Pomfrey and even you could have cured him. I had little time to think about what had taken place in the cave, and I hated you so much for killing him that I had no room for my own guilt at all… It had been the same when Sirius died."

"I did not kill your godfather."

"I know you didn't. Later, my mind was full of other things. But recently, it has come back. I have understood… Didn't I tell you I had understood something important about Dumbledore and you and myself? You see… in the end, there was no difference. He left us the same legacy. He treated us the same way."

"_Almost_ the same way," Snape corrected gruffly, and Potter conceded with a nod.

Snape's thoughts were so occupied with what he had found out about Dumbledore that he nearly forgot about what he was waiting for. He could not ignore it any more, however, when he had to go back to the courtroom.

How could he worry about Dumbledore's posthumous reputation when his own life, his own future, was at stake again, and not only his but Irene's as well? He wondered whether he would hear the verdict right away or he would have to endure some more of the proceedings. Was there, _could_ there be, any more to say on either side?

Though a mere minute seemed like an hour, in reality he did not need to wait long to find out. The members of the council were ready to return a verdict. _Not guilty… Not guilty... _

Not guilty.


	39. The Return

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling._

**Too Deep for the Healing**

**Chapter 39**

_The Return_

"_If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?"_

Against the cold wind, Snape wrapped his cloak tightly around himself. It was a simple black travelling cloak, handed to him by Jones before the guard had taken leave of him, and which he was wearing over the prison uniform. (He did not need to ask who had had the foresight to secretly pack this item for him.) His hand in his pocket, he was fingering his wand, his own wand, which he had just got back from Shacklebolt.

At the end of the trial, he and Potter had been ambushed by reporters, and he envied Potter's easy way of dealing with them. It was a matter of routine for Potter- not so for _him_. Finally, they got rid of the reporters and managed to get out of the building. Just outside the Ministry, he was, of course, still being stared at, but he was too bemused by the noise, the smell and the urban elegance of the city to pay much attention to it. He tried to savour the feeling that he was free to go wherever he wanted to.

"What are you going to do now?" Potter asked suddenly as though guessing his thought. "Where are you going?"

Where was he going? Snape's mouth twitched at the irony of the answer. Surely there was only one place for him to go. Potter shifted from one foot to the other.

"I've just had this idea that you might spend a few days at… at Grimmauld Place. You could rest and you could think over what you want to do… You could have guests and everything… it's a big house."

Potter presented this clearly charitable suggestion with great care least Snape might feel offended, but Snape nearly laughed out. Going to Grimmauld Place? Things were not quite as bad for him yet.

"I can't do that," he said. "I must get back to the camp immediately." He paused before adding, "… as a visitor."

This time it was Potter's mouth that twitched. It was too obvious that Snape could hardly wait to be back at the prison camp. Politely, he kept a straight face though.

"I'll accompany you," he offered.

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"I'm a free man," he protested indignantly. "I don't need escort."

"I know," Potter replied, "but ordinary visitors need permission from the Ministry, and it would take days to obtain it. The guard could have taken you back, but he's already left. You don't want to have problems going in… or getting out. Security has been tightened lately. As an auror, I can help you."

That convinced Snape, and, rather than losing valuable time, he accepted one more favour from Potter, although returning to the camp as he had left, in the company of an auror, did not seem to be particularly elegant. Then again, he had got quite used to Potter lately, and if he _had to be_ escorted by an auror, he preferred Potter now to any of his colleagues.

They were just about to Disapparate, when someone called out Snape's name. It was Minerva coming towards them. Snape was impatient to leave, but Professor McGonagall could not be ignored.

"Going back to _that place_?" she asked, astounded, after offering her warm congratulations.

She was scrutinizing Snape as though she was trying to assess what she saw. Snape knew he had lost weight and become leaner than he had been. He was exhausted by a difficult day following a sleepless night following days of hard and responsible work; yet, on the whole, he was probably looking better (perhaps much better) and definitely more muscular (if one could believe what Irene said) than he had when Minerva had last seen him. In any case, he took care to straighten his (recently broadened) shoulders.

"Of course, you want to collect some left-behind possessions. But I thought you'd be coming home first," she added.

Snape responded with a somewhat sarcastic smile.

"Going home? I should find out where my home is before I could do that."

"Well, do as you wish," Minerva said, slightly affronted. "But don't forget you still have a room packed with your things at Hogwarts. Besides…" - and here she paused for a second – "I myself was hoping to have a word with you, Severus."

"I'm all ears," he replied, knowing from experience that a word Minerva wanted to have with one could not be avoided.

"Not here. Could you come and see me tomorrow before noon?"

"Certainly," he answered, and Minerva rewarded him with a knowing smile.

A few minutes later, Snape and Potter were arguing with the wetland guide. Potter had been correct. The guide was very particular about letting people in, and it was only Potter's auror status that solved the problem. Just before the crossing started, Jones joined them (it turned out that he had done some quick shopping in London), and the situation became uncomfortably familiar to Snape, especially when he had to hand over his freshly regained wand (while the two younger men were able to keep theirs). In exchange, he received a bracelet that marked him as a visitor.

"That was a fine speech at the Ministry," Jones complimented Potter. "It broke my heart to see Professor Dumbledore suffer so terribly. I always liked him a great deal. But I'm glad the Wizengamot didn't decide to arrest you, too, Auror Potter."

"I reckon some people would have been glad to see both of us convicted," Potter replied cheerfully.

"Do you have enemies at the Ministry?" Jones inquired.

Snape was beginning to pay close attention.

"As long as I have no political power, I don't really matter," Potter answered. "It's Kingsley Shacklebolt and his position that they are after."

He glanced at Snape.

"If you had been convicted for the second time, it would have made Kingsley vulnerable to a smear campaign simply because he sided with you so openly. He would have been accused of supporting former Death Eaters, paying them personal visits in prison and exercising his influence to have their sentences reduced."

Potter turned to Jones again.

"A high-ranking Death Eater, like the one Professor Snape was believed to be, would have had to be imprisoned in Azkaban, and it was only because of the Minister's intervention that he ended up here," he explained.

Snape did not actively take part in the conversation, but he secretly admitted to himself that this intervention alone was good reason for him to be grateful to Kingsley Shacklebolt.

In the camp, their ways parted. Jones was stopped by a fellow guard as soon as they entered. Potter said he would go straight to Mr Grey's office – Snape could see the Warlock later when he was ready to sign out. Snape hardly heard what Potter was saying. He could only think of Irene. But he still had to notice that Potter was handing him something.

"I'd rather _you_ kept this," Potter muttered, as Snape took the small object wrapped in a piece of parchment from him.

It was the Resurrection Stone. Snape gaped at Potter.

"If you are imagining that I have any intention to speak to Dumbledore of what happened -"

"No," Potter cut in. "I don't mean that. I simply don't want to be the keeper of this thing. You've found it, so it's yours. That's all I mean."

Irene had seen him from the window of her hospital room, and she had opened her door for him by the time he went up the stairs. Though she had been pale before, now her cheeks were ablaze, and when Snape took her in his arms, he felt her body shake all over as though she had fever.

"Are you unwell?" he asked.

She was holding on to him as though she was never going to let go of him.

"I can't tell until you tell me how _you_ are."

"I am … free."

She gave a long, deep sigh – then she began crying. She was shaking even more than before. He led her to the armchair and made her sit down. Then all of a sudden he found himself on his knees, kissing her trembling fingers, pressing her palms against his face. Her tears for him eased _his_ tension, too, and he found relief in _her _relief and in _her_ happiness.

"I'm such a fool," she said, caressing him, "I didn't mean to welcome you with a flood of tears. I meant to be strong and supportive… in case you needed it."

Snape rose and drew her to himself.

"Didn't you think I would win?"

"I didn't dare to be … too hopeful."

"Nor did I."

"And when I saw you come back with Harry Potter, I was afraid."

"As a matter of fact, Potter was afraid they wouldn't let me come back without him."

"I'm so glad."

"So am I."

"I think I-"

But her sentence was cut short by him.

The kiss, too, was cut short not much later by a knock on the door. Irene looked up.

"Don't open it," he breathed softly. His lips were brushing her neck. "She has a tendency to show up at the wrong time."

"I mustn't offend her," she replied. "She promised to make some more Strengthening Solution for me."

She slipped out of his arms.

Snape was perplexed. _Mrs Primrose making Strengthening Solution_?

"What was wrong with the dose I left here for you?" he asked aloud.

"Nothing. I just need some more," she whispered back as she reached for the doorknob.

Snape frowned. Irene must have been in very bad shape, she must have fainted at the very least; otherwise she would not have needed all that Strengthening Solution.

The witch who entered was not Mrs Primrose, but a much older witch with a thousand wrinkles on her face. She was carrying a goblet.

"Here's your potion," she said to Irene, with only a passing glance at Snape.

"Thank you," Irene replied. "This is Severus-"

"I know who he is," the old witch interrupted. "Though I resigned from the Wizengamot when I thought the Death Eater trials were over, I do remember his first trial. I'm sure Potions Master Snape knows me, too."

Snape gave a little bow that could be respectful and ironic as well.

"Healer Juniperus," he said.

The witch seemed satisfied with the prompt response.

"I don't need to ask the results of today's trial," she turned to Irene. "I can see you are recovering."

She pushed the goblet into Irene's hands.

"As for the details, I'll read them in the Prophet tomorrow."

Snape nearly winced at the idea of having to trust the Daily Prophet with the vindication of his name.

"Healer Juniperus," Irene said, hoping to change the topic, "analysed the venom of… _that snake_ and prepared the potion with which Madam Pomfrey healed you."

Almost imperceptibly, her voice trembled, and Snape was able to fully appreciate her successful effort to mention _that snake_ without breaking down.

"It was my _team_," Healer Juniperus corrected, "with my contribution, naturally".

"And Healer Juniperus has kindly agreed to substitute me and Titania, while neither of us is able to work," Irene added hastily.

"And as your healer, I daresay that a short walk and some fresh air would do you good now."

Irene looked at Snape, who nodded.

"We shall walk then," he said somewhat sharply.

"But before that walk," Healer Juniperus said, "I want to have a few words with you, Potions Master Snape."

With a strict expression, she stared at Snape, who returned the stare with his own matching one.

"We will go to the laboratory," the old witch commanded. "Irene can change in the meantime."

The old healer led the way, and Snape followed her. He knew that the witch was in charge of one of the most modern and best-equipped potions laboratories in the world. He knew that her criticism could be ruthless and venomous. It would be easy for her to find fault with the kitchen turned laboratory of a prison camp; but Snape was more than ready to defend the fruit of his hard work.

"I hate Death Eaters," Healer Juniperus began as soon as the door had closed behind them. "And I especially hate potioneers who use their knowledge for dark purposes. I'm a healer, you see."

She paused for a moment, but Snape remained silent.

"I heard contradictory information about you. At first I did not give credit to any of the rumours in your favour, and you must forgive me for that. The evidence against you seemed particularly strong. But I had to ask myself certain questions over time. I do not usually substitute for ordinary healers. The reason why I volunteered to do it this time was a chance to meet you."

She glanced round in the laboratory.

"You have a certain… _name_ in the profession. I knew that. But it takes more than bottles and bottles of well-made potions to impress me. They're only the norm for anyone with the reputation of a _real_ potioneer. Here, however, I have found more than just bottles of perfectly prepared drinks."

She made a wide gesture.

"This laboratory, I am told, is your work alone. Impressive. In the given circumstances that is. I've heard how you did your daily job here, too. Not only from Irene. She was ready to sing your praise all day long, but she is obviously biased. Mrs Primrose, however, confirmed many of her statements. I understand that your work here went beyond that of a potioneer. I also realize that the only professional mistake you could be charged with – the one connected with a goblet of Wolfsbane Potion –" (Snape made a sudden gesture in protest, but the witch did not let him speak) "… was not exclusively your fault."

"That potion was poisoned," Snape put in vehemently.

"I know," the healer replied. "I even know who did it. A guard called Tanner dropped a few surprising facts here and there in his sleep. As soon as he gets better, I'll try him with Veritaserum."

"You can't use Veritaserum against your patient," Snape said.

"You mean I won't be able to officially use the information that I obtain? That's true. But what do we have aurors for? They will investigate and prove the details in due course. For me, it is enough to be sure you did not spoil the potion."

"You have just told me that it wasn't _exclusively_ my fault."

"That's right. A good potioneer ought to take better care of his potion. You can't leave it unattended and then give it to the patient without checking."

The old healer spoke with an air that reminded Snape of the late Alastor Moody. He would not have been surprised if she had suddenly shouted '_constant vigilance'_.

"Hopefully, you have learned your lesson," Healer Juniperus continued. "Apart from this single mistake, you have done a remarkably good job here in remarkably difficult circumstances. And I've found something that aroused my interest more than anything else."

Snape sent a sideways glance towards the cabinet where he had left the Pensieve, but Healer Juniperus went to one of the shelves and took out a small notebook from behind the books.

Snape glared at her as she turned the pages, going through the notes with complete familiarity.

"That's _my_ notebook."

He had listened to the witch's views on Death Eaters and endured her lecture on _constant vigilance_, but _that_ was impertinence beyond measure.

"I guessed so," Healer Juniperus said dryly. "And the notes in it…"

"They are mine."

"Your handwriting, yes. And the ideas?"

"_Mine_."

"That's _most remarkable_," she said. "When and how did you come to have these ideas? Don't be afraid, I am not going to steal them. I have never stolen from anyone and I'm too old to start it now."

"I've been working on them for more than a year," Snape replied. "I haven't had much time to develop them. Last school year I was Headmaster of Hogwarts; then I was ill, and here… lately I have been able to spend some time on them, but only since December."

"Just as I thought," Healer Juniperus nodded. "But some of these notes are quite significant nevertheless. You have conducted some experiments, too."

"Yes."

"You are leaving this place soon," Healer Juniperus said. "Have you got another laboratory where you can continue the experiments?"

"I… no. No, I haven't."

The only other laboratory he had called 'his' before was the laboratory of Hogwarts, but it had belonged to Horace Slughorn for two years and a half now.

"Since these ideas are well worth a try," Healer Juniperus continued, "I have an offer for you, and it means nothing less than the laboratory of St. Mungo's at your disposal. A research grant. Such grants are for limited periods, during which the proposed experiments have to be carried out and the results have to be evaluated. The grant covers all expenses of the research and provides the researcher with a living."

"And the results?" Snape asked. "Whose are they?"

"It depends on the contract," Healer Juniperus explained. "You may get a nice sum if you sell the results to the hospital. Or you may choose only a modest grant, and keep the ownership of the results. However, this is not the time to go into details. Irene will be able to work in a few days and I'll go back to London. The climate here doesn't agree with me. If you are interested in my offer, you will have to see me in my laboratory. You will need to bring a detailed research plan to start with, and when it is accepted, we will be able to discuss the rest."

She handed the notebook to Snape.

"I must go to my patients now, and Irene is probably getting impatient."

Snape decided to see Mr Grey before taking a walk in the surrounding area.

"So we must find a new Potions Master", said the Warlock, as though he was genuinely sorry to hear he was losing such a good employee, as he gave Snape some documents to sign.

When Snape returned to the hospital, he was once again dressed in civilian robes. They were light summer robes, the ones he had had to exchange for the prison uniform on that horrible summer morning - far too light for the northern winter. It was only the travelling cloak Irene had sent him that kept him from being chilled to the marrow while he was hurrying across the camp.

On the hospital corridor, he found Potter in conversation with Healer Juniperus. It was unlikely that the boy had met the chief potioneer of St Mungo's before (Potter was, of course, known by everyone), but he had apparently learned to converse with his fans. The witch was probably asking for an autograph – or tipping Potter off about Tanner. Potter glanced at Snape, but Snape signalled for him to wait, before heading for the laboratory once more.

"You have won again," Healer Juniperus said thoughtfully when Snape had passed by. "The Wizengamot gave in."

"Justice has won," Harry corrected her. "Professor Snape fought on our side in the war with great courage. He was Dumbledore's man through and through, and he did everything according to Dumbledore's plan. He deserves more than just freedom."

"Like acknowledgement?" the healer asked. "Happiness? A life?"

The young man hesitated.

"All of those, actually. But the Ministry can only give him his freedom. Acknowledgement perhaps, one day. But happiness? A life? Who could give those?"

He stared into space, as though seeing something in the air, behind the old witch's back.

"Dumbledore told me once that some wounds run too deep for the healing."

Healer Juniperus gazed at the stairs that led to Irene's private room.

"There certainly are such wounds," she replied. "Though we don't always know in advance which ones they are. And a true healer can always give it a try."

She walked off, just as Irene, dressed up prettily, came downstairs.

She was approaching with a broad smile, and Harry soon realized that the smile was not for him, but for Snape, who was coming towards them from the laboratory attired in his familiar black robes. Harry hurried to him.

"Everything is settled with Mr Grey," he said. "You have been given visitor's status, and you are free to leave except that you will have to sign a few papers in Mr Grey's office before you go."

"I've already signed them," Snape replied.

Irene reached them, and this time she did beam at Harry with deep, sincere gratitude.

"I'm glad that you are feeling better," Harry said politely, doing his best to avoid being thanked in front of Snape.

"Yes. We are just going out for a walk," Irene explained, and Snape noticed, with alarm, that she was a mere second away from inviting Potter to walk with them.

"Auror Potter has had a tiring day," he cut in quickly, grabbing Potter by the arm. "He needs a rest before starting his journey back."

With this, he led Potter into the potions laboratory.

"That chair is very comfortable," he said, indicating a chair at the table. "You can stay as long as you wish."

He went out of the room and closed the door behind him, leaving Potter alone inside.

"We must warn Healer Juniperus not to disturb him," he said to Irene quite smugly.

Irene appeared to be rooted to the spot.

"What are you doing?" she asked, the smile gone from her face.

Snape took her by the hand.

"Don't worry, Irene. If I know Potter at all, he will have the time of his life in there. Let's go."

At first, Harry Potter gave an indignant growl at being shoved into a room and left there alone, but even as he growled, his eyes followed the gesture of Snape's hand, which directed his attention to a chair at the table, and even in his anger and indignation, his gaze was arrested by the large stone basin _on _the table, emitting a mysterious, dancing light. He glided closer almost before knowing what he was doing. It was Dumbledore's Pensieve, full to the brim with memories.

The neither-gas-nor-liquid substance was drawing him with irresistible force. He knew exactly what he was going to see as he dived in.

Snape had paid back his debt to him.


	40. Erised

_**_**Author's Note**_**___**:**____ Now, at the end of this story, I would like to thank all my readers and especially those who have reviewed and shared their thoughts about the various chapters with me for keeping me company on a year-and-a-half long journey and for making it so much more enjoyable. I look forward to your responses to the finished story, and I wish you all the best.__

_**_**Disclaimer**_**___**:**____ All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling. Special thanks to her for Severus Snape.__

****Too Deep for the Healing****

****Chapter 40****

__Erised__

While Harry Potter was watching scene after scene from his mother's short life (from a birthday at home to a Christmas at Hogwarts, from sneaking around in Petunia's room to making potions in Slughorn's class, from preparing for exams to wandering in Hogsmeade), Snape and Irene were taking a walk in the sleepy little Muggle village, and he steered her towards _the Village Inn_.

"We're going to eat there," he said.

He had received his wages in the camp for the last time just a day before, and he did not care if he was going to leave it all there. He wanted the experience.

"Unless you are ashamed to appear with me in public," he added, seeing Irene's reluctance.

"That's blackmail," she replied, leaning her head on his shoulder. "How can you even suggest such a thing?"

The meal was more of a demonstration than a celebration, but as long as it meant some recompense to Severus, if it helped him rebalance his troubled soul, Irene was willing to assist. As always, the customers of the inn included wizards (off-duty guards and other employees of the camp) as well as local Muggles. Snape made sure the light of the lamps fell on his visitor's bracelet as they entered. He ordered champagne with the air of someone who was almost looking forward to a confrontation, yet if he was hoping for a chance to triumphantly shove his symbol of freedom into a guard's face, he had to be disappointed. The wizards who were present took notice of his changed status with curiosity but with little surprise, which Irene could have foretold if he had asked her.

The trial had been the talk of the camp for the past couple of days, and, according to Mrs Primrose, guards had been placing bets on or against the convict who had Harry Potter's support; therefore they must have already found out what the verdict was. A few people even raised their glasses towards Snape with happy winks – they were clearly the ones who had bet a significant sum on him and were now considering themselves part of his victory.

It was already dark when they left the place. The village streets were empty, though there were lights beyond the windows. They walked holding hands.

"Aren't you tired?" he asked.

"A little," she answered. "I have hardly been out lately."

"Shall we go back then?"

"What are your plans?"

His plans…

"I wish I could take you to a place of my own."

Her response was light-hearted.

"Do you? And what would that be good for?"

"To keep you there forever. I wish I had such a place."

Her hand squeezed his.

"How about going to my place here in the village?"

"I would like that, too."

"So why don't we Apparate back to the camp, collect my things and your things and get done with the moving?"

"Let's do that."

It did not take long for Snape to pack his possessions in the camp. He was congratulated by Weasley and Mrs Primrose and stared at by the convicts, who had already heard the news, too. In the hospital, Draco gave him a sour look.

"So you're leaving. It's over for _you_," the boy said almost reproachfully.

"Unlike some others," Snape replied coldly, "I never belonged here."

A vicious sneer appeared on Draco's face.

"You did six months here _by mistake_! Bad luck, isn't it?"

"Never mind _my_ luck, Draco. Mind yours."

Draco kept staring at him, and his expression gave Snape an uncomfortable feeling. He had seen that expression just a few days before – when Draco was crying, clutching his hand and begging him desperately to help.

"You're not a child," he continued, and his voice lost all its previous coldness. "If you can take your medicine like a man, it will be easier to look ahead."

Draco dropped his gaze and shrugged. Snape hesitated.

"There are second chances," he said. "Remember that when the times comes."

With this, he turned round and hurried away as though there was something indecent in the fact that he was giving advice to a repentant young Death Eater. Who was he to act as a mentor or to offer a moral compass? He nevertheless wondered if Draco had understood his words as he had meant them - as an offer of future help.

It was a relief to leave behind the camp with Irene; but as they entered her house, he was increasingly aware of a change that did not make him particularly confident. He wished the duration of the invitation had been explicitly specified. Of course, on the one hand, Irene was not likely to send him out into the night, and, on the other hand, he had already mentioned to her his appointment with Minerva the next day. Of course, Irene loved him. Of course, it would not be their first night together. Yet, he felt in the new situation their relationship had to be redefined; and until it was done, he could take nothing for granted.

In the living room, Irene put down the cage of her exotic owl and glanced round.

"I'll have to do some cleaning before my parents get here tomorrow."

"Your parents?"

"They wanted to come as soon as they heard I was ill, but it took ages to get the permit."

"They are coming here to help you, not to criticize you," he said. "You are in no condition to start sweeping and scrubbing."

"But I want to create a good impression."

"Leave it to me then," Snape offered. "It'll be quicker with magic even though I'm a bit out of practice."

"You could have fooled me," she chuckled. "Out of practice, indeed!"

Though his magic was in perfect condition, Snape had never cared much for household charms, and now he worked quite hard to do his very best until he saw that she was satisfied with the result. She gave him a grateful smile, which he could not return.

Irene had often mentioned her parents, but she had ever only spoken about things pertaining to the relationship between her and them. Snape had no mental picture of Mr and Mrs Burbage as a wizard and a witch who could be met and talked to, as people with lives of their own, only as Irene's parents doing things parents (real, normal parents) could be expected to do. He had always carefully avoided asking any questions about them. Now he did not like the idea that Irene wanted to impress them so much. How would _he_, an ex-convict, fit this picture? It was one thing to be officially exonerated; shaking off the shadow of suspicion was something quite different. But at least he had an excuse to leave before they arrived – he did not believe he was ready to create a good first impression yet.

He was still thinking of Irene's parents late at night, when they were at last comfortably settled on the sofa by the warmth and the light of the fireplace. On the mantelpiece, there were two goblets of red wine.

"Do your parents… know about me?"

"They do. Why?"

There was some shyness in her answer that Snape found worrisome.

"Make sure you tell them I'm acquitted and free," he said after a pause.

"I hope I won't forget," she replied cheerfully. "But I guess they will have learned it from the paper by the time they get here."

"I can already see the headlines. _Death Eater Walks Free Again…_"

"They will hear the true story from me," she said kindly.

Snape was again reminded of what Healer Juniperus had told him - that Irene was ready to sing his praise any time and that she was biased.

"They're not likely to be thrilled by the company you keep here."

"If you mean yourself, let me just tell you that my mum knows you."

Snape gaped at her.

"Your mother and I have met?"

"She says so."

"Let me guess," he replied wryly. "Is she another member of the Wizengamot who voted against my acquittal?"

"They wouldn't need to learn the news from the Prophet then."

"Ah… true enough."

"But…"

"But?"

"My mum was angry with you a few years ago."

_So much for a good first impression_, Snape thought.

"I don't remember offending any other Burbages but Charity and you."

"Oh, she is more widely known by her maiden name. That's how she became famous, and only her friends and her family know her married name. She says you let her down. She invited you to work in her team for a few months because she thought you were just the kind of potioneer her team needed. You accepted the offer but later changed your mind without explanation."

Snape gaped at her again.

"Your mother is Professor Wood," he said, astonished. "She was here in the summer, directing the work out there."

"I think she accepted the assignment mainly to see what kind of workplace her daughter had chosen."

"She must have tried to talk you out of it."

"Oh, yes. But since no one was able to talk _her _out of exploring the magic of wild places, she shouldn't be surprised to see her daughter can't be talked out of a chosen job either."

Irene picked up the goblets and gave one to him.

"There's no need to be shocked," she said. "Cheers, Severus."

They clinked their goblets together but Snape hardly drank. In his mind's eye, he could see Professor Wood on a summer day, fighting off the tendrils of a dangerous plant.

"In those days, the Dark Lord was regaining power and Dumbledore needed me," he began. "The night the Dark Lord returned I was sent to him on a secret mission as a spy. I had to break my promise to your mother so I could keep another one. I'm sorry if I was a disappointment."

"She saw you in the wetland," Irene said by way of reply, "saving someone from Devil's Snare."

"It was Draco. Your mother saved us both, in fact. I hoped she didn't recognize me."

"At first she didn't. She had no idea you were here… she had not followed the trials very closely. You see, she is still a bit out of touch with the world beyond rainforests. It took her some time to remember who you were, but she did remember eventually."

"I recognized her at once," Snape muttered.

"You didn't let her know though."

"Of course not."

She put down her goblet and reached for his hand.

"Don't be ashamed of that meeting. Your name has been cleared. The sentence is null and void."

"I'm perfectly aware that I can't wipe it out of my past. It will always be attached to my name despite the acquittal."

She squeezed his hand warmly.

"You can regard it as a war injury," she said. "Just move on and hold your head high. All right?"

"I'm trying. At the moment I can still feel the chains pressing into my flesh whenever I'm reminded of the trial."

Her eyes opened wide.

"The chains?"

"Defendants are usually chained. Not a great experience."

Her hand began tracing his body slowly, tenderly.

"I can make that feeling go away. Tell me where it hurts."

"Here," he murmured with mock complaint, directing her caressing hand. "And here… and here, too. But I'd rather you didn't switch to healer mode now."

"Would you object to a therapy of kisses?"

"Not to that. Not at all… And I'm aching all over, so you'd better make the treatment appropriate."

"It'll take a long time then."

"And so it should. You have no idea what I endured for you… You gave me the will and the strength to go on fighting."

"And now that you have fought and won like a valiant knight… you are claiming the prize."

Like a valiant knight… He was glad Irene had not seen him in the courtroom. But he was certainly claiming the prize. He was ready to take it, too, and he left no doubt in her mind about that.

"Severus…"

"Yes?"

"Let's go to my bedroom."

...

* * *

><p>"I want more and more of this."<p>

Snape rested his hand on Irene's waist, savouring the warmth of her body and the smoothness of her skin. They had already had their fill of pleasure. They both were, in fact, rather exhausted, and his professed insatiability made her smile.

"I'm game," she said. "But you should get some sleep. You are having a job interview tomorrow and you don't want Professor McGonagall to believe that a few months of forced labour have worn you out so much."

"I'd love to brag about the real reason. What makes you think it's a job interview?"

"What else could it be?"

"Well… she may want to congratulate… to check how I am… No, she has already done that… She may have problems with some of the wards I put up last year… there may be things they haven't figured out yet. Perhaps she wants my advice."

"She's a very able witch, Severus."

"She's a Gryffindor, and she thinks like a Gryffindor. Some of my tricks were decidedly… Slytherin."

Irene laughed, but was not convinced.

"Would you like to _teach_ Potions again?"

"Hogwarts has a Potions teacher. It would be too convenient if Horace wanted to resign just when I needed a job. It's a safe bet he will stay at Hogwarts until he has enjoyed a good many anniversary celebrations commemorating the Battle."

"Healer Juniperus will be happy to employ you anyway."

He spent some time playing with a lock of her hair before speaking again.

"You haven't told me of _your_ plans yet."

"_My_ plans?"

"Healer Juniperus says you can take up work in a few days. You have a job here. You live here. If you intend to stay here, I want to know."

"Does it matter where I work?"

"This is not a place where one can Apparate at will. One needs permission for every single visit. I want to be near you. I want to see you every day, not only on special occasions. If you stay here, then here I must find a place for myself."

"A place?" Irene asked in a strange voice.

"A place to live… and I might have to apply for a job here… The camp needs a potioneer."

"You must be joking."

"I have to build my life from scratch," he said. "I'm free as a bird with no obligation to any employer, not even a true home to return to. I can adapt."

"Adapt to a life _here_?"

"To a life near you."

"Severus…"

She showered him with kisses and caresses.

It was worth it… just to feel her like this, so close to him every day, would be worth it.

"So that's settled," he said quietly, stroking her head as though he wanted to soothe her.

Her voice was gentle like that of a healer talking to a troubled patient.

"Do you think I would accept such sacrifice from you even if this were the most beautiful place on Earth? To make you live here, _here_, of all places, and give up all other opportunities in the world? But I'm touched, Severus, I'm thoroughly touched that you're willing to do it. I'll never forget it."

"Will you leave this place then? I don't know where I'm going, but I can't imagine the future without you."

"I need some time," she said. "Weeks, maybe a month... I'll be the only healer here when Healer Juniperus returns to London. I must wait until Titania recovers from dragon pox or until they find a new healer. You can't waste your time watching over me. You have so much to make up for... Start building your new life and visit me when you can."

"You are too conscientious to just quit, aren't you?"

"I also need time to find a new job and a new home."

Snape knew what the best reply to these words would be, but something kept him from saying it. He did not feel ready. Not for that. Not yet.

He kissed her again instead, his desire reviving.

...

* * *

><p>Irene was right. Professor McGonagall did intend to speak to Snape about a job-related issue, but she found it unusually difficult to start. They were drinking tea together, talking about the past six months, about the trial and Harry Potter. Finally, Minerva made up her mind.<p>

"I need your advice, Severus," she said.

Snape regarded her with the gaze of someone who had heard exactly what he had expected.

"It is about the Defence Against the Dark Arts position. It has been left vacant this school-year, and I wonder if there is any way to check how safe it is."

Snape responded with a somewhat impertinent smirk.

"Do you wish to test it on me?"

"No," the Headmistress protested. "I simply need your … opinion."

"Is there another candidate?"

"I'd like you to understand me. I haven't considered any candidates yet. I must be sure first that the job is free of the curse at last."

"Would you consider _me_ – if I were willing to try?"

"You would be my first choice," Minerva replied, "but I don't want to expose you to further danger. You've already done enough for Hogwarts."

"I happen to need a job," Snape said slowly. "Even if the contract expires in a year, it'll be worth trying."

"I don't know, Severus. There may be other opportunities out there for you. You'd deserve something more … peaceful."

"I know nothing about peaceful jobs. But listen to me, Minerva. If you only want my opinion, I'll say the position is probably not more dangerous than any other Hogwarts jobs. If the curse hasn't worn off yet, it must have at least weakened considerably."

"How can you tell that? Not all spells wear off with the caster's death."

"I tend to think the only permanent magic the Dark Lord ever produced was the Killing Curse, and even that is only because of the irreversible biological process it set off. He never planned his own death. He never had any plans for a world in which he lived no more. I doubt he ever bothered to make his spells, or anything else, last beyond his death. All his efforts were aimed at immortality. He never cared about anything else."

"If you are certain," said Minerva, "I'll be pleased to welcome you at Hogwarts again, as our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. I suppose you realize I can't appoint you Head of Slytherin. That position has been filled by Horace ever since Dumbledore's death; besides, I'm sure it is better for our Slytherin students to have a Head of House who doesn't have your aura of..."

She broke off, looking for words.

"Of deception and duplicity?" Snape offered helpfully.

"I didn't mean to use those words."

"But you meant to …. _mean them_? Never mind, Minerva. I'm quite satisfied with your offer."

Professor McGonagall was again observing Snape. He had changed… though perhaps not in a way one could be expected to change during months of captivity and forced labour. She liked this new Severus, but she was also rather awed by him - he reminded her of a wild animal that remained friendly only as long as he chose to.

"You haven't heard all of it yet. Your responsibilities will include looking after the potions supply of the Hospital Wing," she said.

"That's traditionally the Potions teacher's job."

"Horace has too many tasks on his hands at the moment, and he's an old man. We will break with tradition. When can you start?"

"As soon as you wish."

She considered the question for a minute.

"Today is Wednesday… How about next Monday? I can make a new timetable until then. Will you be ready?"

Snape nodded.

They discussed a few more details; then Snape went to his old private room, where he found his possessions exactly as he had left them. Being there gave him a cosy sensation, a sense of belonging that he did not want to feel now. In the long run, the school would be his workplace, not his home.

He was not surprised to find he would have to start at the bottom again – the least wanted job, fewer responsibilities, probably a bad timetable as well. He did not envy Horace the Head of House position though. It was going to be awkward enough to teach the students who had known him as the Dark Lord's choice of Headmaster; becoming Head of Slytherin would be too much now, Minerva was quite right about that. Besides, he needed more freedom than he had had before, because he was making plans – a lot of plans.

First of all, he had to make a research plan before the week was over, and he had to take it to Healer Juniperus. Then he would need time for the research… He also had to plan his Defence Against the Dark Arts course. There was a lot to make up for; Hogwarts students had not had proper DADA lessons for a year and a half. And he would need time to spend with Irene, time simply to … live.

The next day, he visited the old DADA classroom. It was in poor shape, in a part of the castle that had been severely damaged during the battle. It had been rebuilt – after a fashion – and then it had apparently been used as a storeroom for all sorts of things currently out of use. He considered having a couple of house-elves clear up, but he changed his mind. It had been _his_ classroom for a year, and one might never know… _he_ wanted to go through the things in there first.

It was a tiresome task, but he worked hard and with meticulous care. His precaution was rewarded when he looked behind the largest cabinet and saw a huge object wrapped in sheets of unattractive brown paper. He pulled it out, carefully lifted an already torn part of the wrapping – and gaped, dumbstruck, at the ornate gold frame that he recognized at once.

The classroom was obviously a hiding place – such an object could not be carelessly tossed away; therefore the right thing was to put it back behind the cabinet immediately. Yet… the seductive brilliance of the gold frame brought back the old feelings of enchantment and torment… yes, torment, too, perhaps mostly torment, that he had experienced all those years before, in another world perhaps, or maybe in another life. He was curious – and afraid at the same time. Would it be a good idea to look into it again and risk his peace of mind for … what exactly? For nothing. But it was too late to be wise. He wanted to know. He could delude himself, but the mirror would face him with the truth. He wanted to face the truth.

Slowly, he unwrapped the Mirror of Erised and stood in front of it. Once again, he might have been glued to the spot. The mirror had lost nothing of its power over the years. He was drinking in the sight with painful joy and acute longing. It was what he had hoped for – and also what he had not yet dared to hope for. But one could not ignore one's heart's desire when it was glaring – no, not glaring but laughing – into one's face. With determined effort, he tore himself from the sight finally, and wrapped the mirror again.

Naturally, the mirror was correct. He could only blame his own stupidity… _He_, of all people… As a teacher, had he not seen enough to make him reject the very idea? Anyway, he just was not the type. How could he be? The memories of his childhood served as a dire warning. And not even Dumbledore had set a proper example in this respect. As for the staff of Hogwarts in general, they were but a bunch of bachelors and spinsters, and he would have remained one of them forever if he had not been forced to leave the place for a while…

Now, _other_ men of his age… But it was ridiculous to compare himself to anyone. And quite frankly, his contemporaries had not done an admirable job of it at all. James Potter, the hero of his son, had been dead before he could really get down to it. Granted, he had died protecting his family, but that was about the only important thing he had ever got to do - unless one counted his fatal mistake of trusting Pettigrew.

Potter's friend, Lupin, had been in no hurry; but finally he had taken an enormous risk - with the usual Gryffindor foolhardiness, Snape supposed. Then he was gone, too. And Black had never been more than a godfather. Snape shuddered. The war was over – but who could tell…? There was also Lucius, who, with all the opportunity he had got, had spoilt everything… Had he, Severus Snape, ever seen a real role model in his life?

Yet, the image of what he had found in the mirror stayed with him. It kept popping up again and again in his mind, during the hours he spent in solitude. He wished he could talk about it with Irene, but Irene was far away, and the official procedure to get a visitor's permit to enter the camp area was very slow indeed. Besides, there were other, more urgent things for the two of them to discuss, and he still did not know whether he was up to_that _discussion to start with.

In the meantime, he began teaching. On average, his students seemed less put off by the extra lessons they had to take than he had expected; and some of them were eager enough to learn Defence Against the Dark Arts at last. Snape suspected that part of the excitement was caused by the curse the teaching position might or might not entail, but it did not bother him. In particular, he was positively surprised by Ginny Weasley's diligence – though he was careful not to show it. He was yet to see whether her enthusiasm would last.

His research plan having been accepted by St. Mungo's, he now divided his time between the school and the hospital. He regularly commuted from Hogwarts to London, and one evening he ran into Potter in Diagon Alley. The invitation to Grimmauld Place was repeated, and this time Snape accepted it. He had been thinking of talking to Potter about a certain matter anyway.

He got back to Hogwarts late at night, and a few days later Potter's head appeared in his fireplace.

"He's agreed," Potter announced. "It wasn't easy because he's still awfully depressed. But everyone encouraged him to try. In the end he said, since he and Fred had recruited guinea pigs at Hogwarts for their own inventions, it would only be fair if he lent other inventors a helping hand, too." Potter hesitated for a second. "Er… you _are_ positive that it's going to work?"

"I wouldn't suggest that he try if I weren't," Snape snorted. "And I won't start experimenting on George Weasley before I've made sure that it's completely safe. I got the idea because of him in the first place."

He fell silent suddenly, and for a minute Potter was silent too. It was all too clear that he knew Snape had let slip something he had not intended to.

"It would definitely mean a lot to the whole family," Potter said finally. "By the way, they all understand that it was an accident. Percy talked about you a lot at Christmas. Do you know he will be moved to a Ministry office in London next month? Anyway, Mr Weasley says they would be delighted if you could visit them at the Burrow one of these weekends to discuss the details of the therapy. I'm usually there, too. Or you could meet Mr Weasley and George at Grimmauld Place if you'd rather do that."

"All right," Snape replied, his voice hoarse. "Either way would be fine with me."

He finished the conversation hastily, because once again his mind was full of the image the mirror had shown him. He knew what it had been triggered by. Arthur Weasley... The man was nothing exceptional, at least Snape had never seen him as such, yet Arthur Weasley had undeniably achieved something. He had raised a family that was still together, a family where everyone could count on others for support, a family where even outsiders, like Potter or the Granger girl, had found home. There must be a secret the Weasleys had discovered and which he might never find out…

He realized that it had come at a price. They had lost Fred and nearly lost Percy though in a different way, and they were obviously grieved by George's misfortune, too. (With this last issue at least, he might be able to help them.) He wondered how a real father could cope with it all. For reasons of his own, he was suddenly very eager to see Arthur Weasley.

...

* * *

><p>It was early on a snowy Sunday morning and Irene was still asleep when Severus arrived. She had not expected him and she was sleepy and quite bewildered now. He had not managed to visit her yet since his departure in early January. She knew it was because of the visitor's permit, but she also suspected that Severus was too blissfully busy doing all sorts of things nowadays to really have time for her. They were in daily contact, however, and she would have expected to be notified of his arrival in advance, if only to get a chance to look her best and prettiest when they met.<p>

"Hurry up," he said by way of greeting. "Get dressed, we're leaving."

"B-but…" she stammered, "where? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Surprise," he replied, embracing her.

To him, it never even occurred that she might look lovelier if she had been able to prepare. He found her perfect – and when he touched her, he felt tempted to change his plans for the day. It was only a strong sense of purpose that helped him master the impulse and stay in control of himself.

"Can you get ready in five minutes?"

"That's out of the question. If you had only told me yesterday-"

"I didn't know. I've only got the permit today."

"What time is it, like half past seven? How did you get a permit at dawn on a Sunday?"

"I couldn't bear waiting any longer. I broke the door on Shacklebolt and demanded a special ministerial permit at once."

"You didn't do that."

"I reminded him that I deserved this much for my troubles. He wasn't pleased. He said he had wanted to give me something better for my troubles than mere permission to enter my former prison but he might just change his mind."

"And you?"

"I told him to forget it."

Irene thought Severus might have just forfeited the Order of Merlin, but she knew better than to say it aloud. They travelled across the bog together, and Snape put his arms round her as soon as they were on the other side.

"Ready to Disapparate?"

"Where to?"

"Trust me. It's a surprise."

Irene closed her eyes and opened them only when she was standing firmly on her feet again. They had landed in front of a house and a garden in a village street.

"Where are we?"

"Make a guess."

She looked round carefully.

"This is Hogsmeade."

"Correct. Let's go in."

The house was a nice little place, though it definitely required refurbishing. The furniture was old and worn-out and seemed to have been dropped onto the floor without any particular concept. But the house was clean, and warm. The fireplace was in perfect working order. There were flowers on the mantelpiece.

"Why have we come here?"

"Don't look at the furniture, it is temporary only. I thought this place could be turned into a cosy home. Don't you agree?"

She laughed.

"It certainly could, but …" Her lips parted with amazement. "You mean it is-"

"My house. My new house. Do you like it?"

"You have bought a _house_..?"

"I had an old one in a Muggle neighbourhood, which I sold. I wanted something better, and I thought this one would do nicely. It's not big, as I didn't want to borrow an unreasonable amount of money from the goblins, but I think it has … potential."

"You've borrowed money from Gringotts? It's a risky business."

"I couldn't avoid it. I can't live at Hogwarts forever. I have had to build up a new life before, but this time it will be different. This will be my own life and I won't have it as a gift from anyone. I need a place of my own."

Irene was watching him closely.

"It's a lovely house," she said. "Congratulations."

"I wanted it as a surprise for you. I… couldn't wait any longer. I have a job and an income. The research is going well. I have plans. This house is a start."

He took her hand as he spoke. He wanted to do it at least tolerably right. He wanted to meet her standards.

"Will you marry me?"

Though he had no reason to doubt her answer, Irene saw a nervous glint in his eyes, which she found very endearing.

"I will, Severus. And I would even if you didn't have a job or a house."

The slight tension in his eyes did not seem to ease.

"That's because you're a naïve romantic," he replied.

"No, it's because I love you."

"All the same," he said, still so apparently nervous that Irene was beginning to wonder what the matter was, "it's important that I have all these things, because I have one more wish."

"One more wish?" she repeated with a touch of tender irony in her voice. "And what would it be, my love?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, and saw again the picture laughing at him from the Mirror of Erised. He suddenly felt relaxed… and quite certain.

"I want to be a father."


End file.
